[ her silent cacophony ]
Tuesday, August 17, 2010 by Erin Collins
These were the summer nights of perfection. Two imperfect people wrapped in the sheets of delusion, swimming in their bed of insanity.
The ugly girl is caressed by his touch; she is an instrument - plucked apart note by note to create a catastrophic quiet - a cacophony of beauty. Her hair, her eyes, and her lips tuned into the imperfections that surround her. Him, her, the bed - all are imperfect when plucked individually. Yet the strum, the beat, the rhythms created are all music - perfection, harmony, and beauty.
Naked.
Silent.
She realizes how imperfect she is, how undeserving she manages to remain. Even in the soft moonlight, her skin melts away, disappearing into sheets of simplicity, revealing all of her naked conscience and complications. She drips into the cracks and lays bare with cockroaches and forgotten dreams. She slips silently beneath the bed, afraid of her own nakedness. Underneath there, everything is fake. It is there in the darkness that she feels the tired weight of overbearing obscenities lift. Beneath there, she finds another world, one where she belongs, where she can watch the feet of others without having to look down at her own. Her neighbors are the cobwebs, the carcasses of insects, forgotten hopes - nothing that will ever judge her.
Hidden.
Simplistic.
That is everything though. All of it eventually hides under the bed forgotten, all of it slips between the cracks. her skin, though melted and lost, leaves her raw. Everything burns. After the mask slips, putting it back on is useless. A new one is made, created from the 3 a.m. imperfections she finds. She finds them within herself, between the frets of a melancholy tune plucked only for her. She finds another imperfection in the cotton sheets, slinking its way over to her in a sinful fashion. The venom sinks in, the fruit is bitten, the music dies - from here on out, venom, sins, and sugar pump through her veins. No more blood, no more tears - everything is real.
Finally, another layer is shed, a new beginning flows. With salt in her wounds, she stands naked and raw, quiet before the world. In her silent cacophony she slips back between the sheets and imperfections, right where she belongs.
The ugly girl is caressed by his touch; she is an instrument - plucked apart note by note to create a catastrophic quiet - a cacophony of beauty. Her hair, her eyes, and her lips tuned into the imperfections that surround her. Him, her, the bed - all are imperfect when plucked individually. Yet the strum, the beat, the rhythms created are all music - perfection, harmony, and beauty.
Naked.
Silent.
She realizes how imperfect she is, how undeserving she manages to remain. Even in the soft moonlight, her skin melts away, disappearing into sheets of simplicity, revealing all of her naked conscience and complications. She drips into the cracks and lays bare with cockroaches and forgotten dreams. She slips silently beneath the bed, afraid of her own nakedness. Underneath there, everything is fake. It is there in the darkness that she feels the tired weight of overbearing obscenities lift. Beneath there, she finds another world, one where she belongs, where she can watch the feet of others without having to look down at her own. Her neighbors are the cobwebs, the carcasses of insects, forgotten hopes - nothing that will ever judge her.
Hidden.
Simplistic.
That is everything though. All of it eventually hides under the bed forgotten, all of it slips between the cracks. her skin, though melted and lost, leaves her raw. Everything burns. After the mask slips, putting it back on is useless. A new one is made, created from the 3 a.m. imperfections she finds. She finds them within herself, between the frets of a melancholy tune plucked only for her. She finds another imperfection in the cotton sheets, slinking its way over to her in a sinful fashion. The venom sinks in, the fruit is bitten, the music dies - from here on out, venom, sins, and sugar pump through her veins. No more blood, no more tears - everything is real.
Finally, another layer is shed, a new beginning flows. With salt in her wounds, she stands naked and raw, quiet before the world. In her silent cacophony she slips back between the sheets and imperfections, right where she belongs.
