A/N: Short, angsty, a fic I've had in my "vaults" for ages.
"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."
~Langston Hughes
Why live life from dream to dream and dread the day when dreaming ends? Why do we do it? Our lives. . .they depend on luck. And luck is a dangerous wild card to play. Our lives are just a cruel game. . .and the dealer has it in for us. We live on for nothing. Keep your legs open and your eyes closed, they told me. That's what they pay you for. These men don't want a confidante, a woman with a kind word, someone to laugh and talk with. They want an easy fuck. That's all you are: an easy lay, an easy woman.
I stared at myself for a long time today, hating the girl in the mirror. I hated her lying eyes, her weak will to save herself. I smashed that mirror, and I let the shards embed themselves in my skin. I watched, captivated, by the blood that flowed down the white of my arms, admiring the contrast.
I was immune to the sting of the pain. There was nothing, nothing at all, greater than the ache in my heart. The blood could drain all the life from me, and still I would feel no pain. For my heart is ice, and I am the ice queen. Now I have numbed myself to any sort of emotion, for I cannot afford to be hurt like this. Falling in love again will cost me my life.
But I know that there is not much life left. I am dying. Floating, flying, crying, dying. My fate lies in the hands of the dealer, and the cards I shall be dealt will be cruel. I deserve every ounce of cruelty they can deal me, and I will not flinch. There is no heart left in me.
He gave me everything he had. I reveled in his undying love for the precious months, but then I shattered his fragile heart.
I look down from the elephant, staring down at the ground below. It beckons, calling my name. The wind is cold and it stings the cuts in my arms, the cuts that even now are still running crimson blood, crimson the color of my hair, the color of my dress, the color of my lips. The color of his bleeding heart, and mine.
I glance toward his window and see nothing. It is empty, empty as I. Look, look now. The ground is coming closer. I am falling! I've flown away. But my dreams are dead, and soon, too, shall I be. The bird with broken wings never flew away. She only experienced flying as she fell. And died.
"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly."
~Langston Hughes
Why live life from dream to dream and dread the day when dreaming ends? Why do we do it? Our lives. . .they depend on luck. And luck is a dangerous wild card to play. Our lives are just a cruel game. . .and the dealer has it in for us. We live on for nothing. Keep your legs open and your eyes closed, they told me. That's what they pay you for. These men don't want a confidante, a woman with a kind word, someone to laugh and talk with. They want an easy fuck. That's all you are: an easy lay, an easy woman.
I stared at myself for a long time today, hating the girl in the mirror. I hated her lying eyes, her weak will to save herself. I smashed that mirror, and I let the shards embed themselves in my skin. I watched, captivated, by the blood that flowed down the white of my arms, admiring the contrast.
I was immune to the sting of the pain. There was nothing, nothing at all, greater than the ache in my heart. The blood could drain all the life from me, and still I would feel no pain. For my heart is ice, and I am the ice queen. Now I have numbed myself to any sort of emotion, for I cannot afford to be hurt like this. Falling in love again will cost me my life.
But I know that there is not much life left. I am dying. Floating, flying, crying, dying. My fate lies in the hands of the dealer, and the cards I shall be dealt will be cruel. I deserve every ounce of cruelty they can deal me, and I will not flinch. There is no heart left in me.
He gave me everything he had. I reveled in his undying love for the precious months, but then I shattered his fragile heart.
I look down from the elephant, staring down at the ground below. It beckons, calling my name. The wind is cold and it stings the cuts in my arms, the cuts that even now are still running crimson blood, crimson the color of my hair, the color of my dress, the color of my lips. The color of his bleeding heart, and mine.
I glance toward his window and see nothing. It is empty, empty as I. Look, look now. The ground is coming closer. I am falling! I've flown away. But my dreams are dead, and soon, too, shall I be. The bird with broken wings never flew away. She only experienced flying as she fell. And died.
