note; if I knew where this came from, I'd go back and exchange.
- x -
poster of a girl.
Je sais que tu n'aimes pas ta réalité -- (but baby, it's all you own.)
- x -
The skyline laughs sardonically as the magician spins her web. It's glittery and golden and made with the lies of devils masquerading as angels -- beautiful, dizzying, wondrous, forbidden, and addicting. Each rule is broken with sticky fingers that pry and ask and starve for attention because as of now, they're hooked. Line and sinker; spin and fall.
(it feels so very good to be a demon for a day)
Guitar strings pluck-cluck-fuck themselves over and over again, while each dirty dime a dozen twirls into a suicide plunge atop a baseball cap. And she giggles with the cityscape behind her illusion-weaving hand, because these silly little humans lead such silly little lives.
Deceit is a game played best alone.
Elf-fairy-girl, scum-mortal-child; "dance for me," she whispers, "dance."
The world bends to her will tonight, as it never would before. Justice is a bitch, my friend. A vendetta pulses in her veins.
But a needle clatters to the eroded earth, and her insides rot and squirm. Just one more fix, just one, just one, just --
One little girl cross-legged on a molding cement floor, her dreams of storybooks spread out like a map in front of her. (a syringe in place for a sword? He says, he laughs, he screams.)
A magician's spell can awe for only so long, until the slight-of-hand is shown.