Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own any of this...sigh. It all belongs to
Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, and all those geniuses.
They bite at me, the bugs. The naughty, burning blonde sun planted them there, bad girl. They crawl and scratch, and I'm itching at my skin until it bleeds. The sheets are soaked with it; blood. I try and peck them out, to hear them squash under my shoe, but they just crawl deeper inside to where I can't reach. These are the times that I wish my Spike hadn't charred up to taste of ashes, hadn't had the slayer's image dancing around his head. I tried to bat it away, but my hand goes right through her. I tried to get him back, to show him that my sweet Spike was still there, inside of him. But her sweet breath played over and over, blocking his hearing and thoughts. All he could think about was her, naughty Buffy.
The angel inside of me has been whispering lately, nasty white purity; all holy words, white roses, crucifixes, and rosary beads. It leaks out, and the sheets now are stained with two things; blood and purity. The two are very different. Blood is like darkness, reeks of death and fear, flows in rivers like when Spike and I traveled to Prague. He killed every villager, just for his princess. But that's all gone and erased now, the slayer has his gleaming love. Purity is like light, it makes my skin crackle and hiss. It gives hope, and the slayer spreads it wherever she walks, dusting my kind as she goes. The purity shouldn't be, daddy threw out that Drusilla a long time ago; threw it out the window, out and gone forever. But the angel hid, hid inside, waited for a time to seep out again.
I shall have to replace the sheets; they all reek of good, light, and chastity, not blood, death, and fear. Should reek of slayer blood, but only one slayer is etched as death by me. The Cuban girl, Kendra. Her skin was smooth, like hot cocoa in winter. She was so confident, but she fell so easily, like a snowflake; so fragile, so unique. They're pretty, but you can crush them easily between your fingers, then all that's left is water. My head aches, and the colors swirl; reds, greens, blues, yellows, indigos, and violets. The room swirls with them, like a merry-go-round at the carnival. All the while, the angel is whispering holy words:
Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowed--
"NO!" I shout, "It's not right, the holiness is gone!! Daddy threw it out long ago!" But the voices wouldn't listen, no. The angel stays put, there inside me. Naughty thing, refuses to go away, no matter what I say. What shall I do? Maybe I have to go and find Spike; maybe he's seen that he's still my evil little boy, my Spike...
Yes, he did always have a knack for chasing the pixies and things away, but does he still care about his princess? Hmm? Has he counted the days I've been gone like he counted the days after the slayer died? I wonder... He should've counted, I'm his mummy. And he's been trying to forget me, but he can't, no matter how hard he tries. My blood sings inside him, such a lovely tune it hums...
Yes, I shall go and find him. The rain speaks of the way to the hellmouth as it pitter-patters on the sidewalks. I can hear it, it calls out to me. Miss Edith shall go as well; she has been meaning to redeem her bad behavior lately. Mummy will go and bring her boy back to the darkness, where he belongs...
They bite at me, the bugs. The naughty, burning blonde sun planted them there, bad girl. They crawl and scratch, and I'm itching at my skin until it bleeds. The sheets are soaked with it; blood. I try and peck them out, to hear them squash under my shoe, but they just crawl deeper inside to where I can't reach. These are the times that I wish my Spike hadn't charred up to taste of ashes, hadn't had the slayer's image dancing around his head. I tried to bat it away, but my hand goes right through her. I tried to get him back, to show him that my sweet Spike was still there, inside of him. But her sweet breath played over and over, blocking his hearing and thoughts. All he could think about was her, naughty Buffy.
The angel inside of me has been whispering lately, nasty white purity; all holy words, white roses, crucifixes, and rosary beads. It leaks out, and the sheets now are stained with two things; blood and purity. The two are very different. Blood is like darkness, reeks of death and fear, flows in rivers like when Spike and I traveled to Prague. He killed every villager, just for his princess. But that's all gone and erased now, the slayer has his gleaming love. Purity is like light, it makes my skin crackle and hiss. It gives hope, and the slayer spreads it wherever she walks, dusting my kind as she goes. The purity shouldn't be, daddy threw out that Drusilla a long time ago; threw it out the window, out and gone forever. But the angel hid, hid inside, waited for a time to seep out again.
I shall have to replace the sheets; they all reek of good, light, and chastity, not blood, death, and fear. Should reek of slayer blood, but only one slayer is etched as death by me. The Cuban girl, Kendra. Her skin was smooth, like hot cocoa in winter. She was so confident, but she fell so easily, like a snowflake; so fragile, so unique. They're pretty, but you can crush them easily between your fingers, then all that's left is water. My head aches, and the colors swirl; reds, greens, blues, yellows, indigos, and violets. The room swirls with them, like a merry-go-round at the carnival. All the while, the angel is whispering holy words:
Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowed--
"NO!" I shout, "It's not right, the holiness is gone!! Daddy threw it out long ago!" But the voices wouldn't listen, no. The angel stays put, there inside me. Naughty thing, refuses to go away, no matter what I say. What shall I do? Maybe I have to go and find Spike; maybe he's seen that he's still my evil little boy, my Spike...
Yes, he did always have a knack for chasing the pixies and things away, but does he still care about his princess? Hmm? Has he counted the days I've been gone like he counted the days after the slayer died? I wonder... He should've counted, I'm his mummy. And he's been trying to forget me, but he can't, no matter how hard he tries. My blood sings inside him, such a lovely tune it hums...
Yes, I shall go and find him. The rain speaks of the way to the hellmouth as it pitter-patters on the sidewalks. I can hear it, it calls out to me. Miss Edith shall go as well; she has been meaning to redeem her bad behavior lately. Mummy will go and bring her boy back to the darkness, where he belongs...