These aren't necessarily in any order. Sorry if some of them touch on similar pieces of Ilse's tragedy. They don't have to go together. I'm on a Spring Awakening fix and I just gotta get these words out of me somehow.
Disclaimer: Here I sit, owning nothing but the Portuguese SA Cast Recording playing on my ipod. Credit for the inspiration goes to the Wedekind, the Steven Sater, the Duncan Sheik, and the Michael Mayer. And to Courtney Markowitz for creating Isle for me.
You lie there, tracing the pale blue veins running thin and crooked down your arms
like lifeline
like sadness
like the way your feet go numb in the snow without shoes as your mind glazes over
drunk from the absinthe
drunk with the way it felt to feel like you belonged
like drowning in the black, disregarding reality because you know that they left you here, went back to their paints and their fantasies and left you here to burn
death by the sting of snow searing flesh like belt buckle searing soul
maybe you'll die here
damp
numb
lost
like you hoped you'd die pressed between splintered wood floor and a man's sweaty fingers lingering on your skin
as if that should have been okay with the world, who pretended that a little girl's innocence stolen and soiled and thrown crumpled in a corner like filthy white sheets stained with sweat, or sex, or blood didn't
deserve acknowledgement
no more use for memory –
those are all the same anyway –
bound with the same chilled touches and tainted with the same too loud laughter,
the same ivory paint on Johann's brush that creates your image on canvas time after time,
pure and soft like a lie
it'll cover up the bruises like they never existed
like he didn't brand them on your body like sin last night
like you really are so perfect as you are trapped in ivory on canvas under his brush,
when really you're all torn up everywhere.
Their absinthe and ivory can't fix you.
Maybe he could've fixed you – the boy with the socks that made you smile and the gun that they found underneath the blood and the dirt and the rocks –
but he's sleeping in their churchyard.
You can't fix you. You'll only continue to grow broken, like the mockingbird with a bullet caught halfway up its throat who you watch breathing from your window.
You two just breathe in silence.
You swipe tears off your cheeks before they freeze
you'll paint yourself in ivory, and maybe
when you wake you can pretend those never existed either.
I'd appreciate your thoughts. Feliz Navidad!