phoenix ashes
red and white



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Im not depressed.
I assure you.
I do it because it feels good.

The first time.
Oh how I remember it!

I was writing. Like I am now, but with less purpose. Words languidly dripping out of my pen onto parchment.
I paused for a minute and fiddled with my pocketknife as I reread what Id penned down.

The knife flipped open in my hand.
I hissed and dropped it onto the desk.
I sat and watched the thin red line burgeon into droplets.
I licked the blood from my palm, hesitant at first, tracing the lines of my hand, letting the coppery warmth coat my lips.

"Adligoare" I whispered finally.
Feeling the cut close, I wiped my hand on my robe, leaving a darker smear against the blackness of the fabric.

As I turned back to my page, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
My lips were red.
Red. Red. Red.
I turned and pressed my lips to the page, leaving a red smear against the pale parchment.
Pale and Red.
Just like him something in my brain whispered.

I licked the blood from my lips and was sad when it was gone.
I picked up the pen and set it down.
Picked it up, set it down.
Picked it up, set it down.

I looked from my palm to the knife.
I watched myself in the mirror.
Pale skin, dark robes, contrast without color.
I touched my fingers to my lips briefly and picked up the knife.
I watched in the mirror as I drew the knife back along its previous accidental course.

I didnt lick at first. I just watched the skin of my hand turn from white to crimson.
I held my hand out to the mirror, offering it up.
Ohhhhhh. That was nice.
I looked nice doing that.

I wondered.

"Adligoare" I muttered again, closing the cut and adding another stain to my robes.

I shook a finger at myself in the mirror, watching my face for signs of admonition.
Finding none, I pricked the tip of my chastising forefinger.
Watched the droplet well up and pause before dribbling down the length of my finger.

My tongue flicked out, following the path of the blood in reverse.
I teased my finger with my tongue as if it were anothers.
Another in red and white perhaps. I traced my lips with my finger, caressing softly.

I closed my eyes, pulling in the taste and the feel of it, wishing I could watch myself with my eyes closed.

Footsteps startled me out of my reverie.
I spoke it for the third time that evening, cursed word.

The goons tromped in scattering my thoughts with their stumbling.
I said nothing to them.
Theyre used to that by now.

Retiring to my blankets, I rested.
And thought of things red and white.

Blood and Pale Skin.
And him.


Questions? Submissions? Chinese Food?