05-03-2016, 11:41 AM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. She exists as their contrast – cold to their warmth, death to their life. She exists as their contrast, my corpse masterpiece, and some like it more than others. Some find something godlike in it, they coo her name and think of her as holy. Some are repulsed and turn, flee from her. She knows every reaction, savors each one in its own way. She in unsettling, my corpse masterpiece. Wrongness screams across her body – it is somehow too sculpted, like a thing made of wax rather than flesh. Her lips stretch too wide in their smiles. She exists, a contrast, though her pale dishwater gray compliments the girl’s light blue as if they are something lovely. The girl is eager, my corpse masterpiece can smell it on her breath as the lips trace along the rotten bones of her cheek. She coos things, and every word is a shovel digging that grave, an invitation asking her across the threshold. “Some have said as much,” she says, and sighs, as if put-upon, “but they were rather cowardly.” In her wake are kings and queens, are a dozen dead lovers, are strangers whom she passed like a ship in the night. She can feel the girl’s pulse pounding under her skin, alive and eager. “You aren’t scared, are you?” she murmurs, and touches her, presses closer. The girl is warm and strong, striking in her colors. And so eager. It’s so easy, like this, but it does not bore Chantale. She wonders, idly, what colors she might be beneath the blues and purples. (We all bleed red.) Her lips peel back and her teeth skate along the mare’s crest, down to her withers where there’s so little fat, only skin over the bone. how original a sin. |