A/N: This one is a personal half poem/half prose. Interpret it however you wish.
She had dipped in the precipitous water, the trench that marked the end of the world, the snow swarming around her like icy white fluffy bees, ready to sting her with their icicle stingers. She had dipped in the dark water, the monster's mouth, her feet danging in its jaws, and she saw how black it was, how it ventured to the ends of the universe. She could even see stars on the riptides above, the ring of planets inching closer to her death.
She jumped in, the water feeling as cold as her father's heart, the wretched giant who had destroyed her.
Down in the trench she went…
She could see moss on the black needling rocks,
the fishes swarming to devour her whole,
crocodiles and eels with lantern eyes,
seeing her skin dissolve,
her breath emanating quickly on the surface…
Another dip, another breath collected on the glass
Her father's angry breath collecting on the winter pane
He was grotesque, already had aging hair…
Wisps of gray, collecting on his desk…
He gave a hand to her, to listen, to forgive
He had said that no one, even God, believed she was bad
God collects the wisps of curled up tears from her eyes…
He had blue fur, green innocuous eyes, his smile
It had brightened up the trench
He lifted her high, from the murky hole,
His wings were covered with frost, leeches, and seaweed
They were spread wide! And so was his lips
The wings, they were sinful, but she had promised him,
Promised him
That she would get herself out of this trench
And into the warm arms of sanity
Her father wrapping the bloody steaks, ready to grill for yet another July night,
She wished he was dead, but he had told her,
That God couldn't get away with murder.
The white sand has withered away her madness.
She could barely tell anyone of who had saved her.
The lights on the Christmas tree sure were special, weren't they.
They were multi-colored orchids, opening their lips to swallow her pain
Make it into an anagram of happiness
He held her hand.
"You're not evil. You're loved."
She tried to remember his thick, coated words, but he had hugged her with his thick, blue fur coated arms.
"You were so small back then, when you held that knife in your hands. And you cried. And barely cut yourself. I had heard you screaming."
Screams were louder than words. Blood was louder than words. And no blood had come from her wrists.
He presented her a gift, topped with a silver ribbon, and he kissed her on the head, and said, "Merry Christmas."
She opened it, wondering what was inside.
It was the gift of art. The gift of writing. The gift of poetry.
And she couldn't be any more happier.
And since then, she wrote. The fires no longer peaked. They were quenched desires, no longer of illuminating insanities.
She dreams of the trench, still. But it is no longer with fear. It was a fading wound, but its black lips couldn't suck out her passion.