Rapture

It seems to me that every day, I find a little more of who I used to be.

And I want it all.

-Cookie

Image credit to Close Up.

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But I Don’t Know Whether To Name It

Anonymity yields a comfort I can no longer implicitly trust.

But I don’t know whether to name it.

Of Gods and Men III

I was talking to a friend yesterday, about the problem with the notion of love.

Specifically, how being cynical robs you of the so-called ‘honeymoon period’. You never have the initial few weeks where you see the other with rose tinted glasses. Where all their eccentricities are still cute and endearing, rather than being nails-on-a-chalkboard intolerable. Cynicism and a healthy wariness of love never lets you experience the euphoria that brings.

At the same time, it seems as though it’d be a distinct advantage to going into something with your eyes wide open. Fear and vulnerabilities aside, maybe starting with a rational acknowledgment and acceptance of imperfections would be a better foundation weather the inevitable storms.

Maybe it’s just the pragmatism of surrender speaking, having been utterly defeated by that one and only attempt at loving madly that I could muster. Rationale makes for a sturdy excuse.

Or maybe, this is what my version of hope is going to be. But I’m finding- loving smart is so much more difficult than loving hard.

Here’s to falling, one way or the other, and hopefully flying.

Love and light,

Cookie ❤

Make Me Beautiful

Make Me Beautiful

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wanted to make me beautiful. He made my eyes first. That’s how I could see him make the rest.

 
The poor God with the bloodshot eyes, kneeling before an empty pedestal. There was a vast shallow pan on the floor beside him, like a squashed bathtub, and remains of halfway abandoned creations littered the floor near its rim. His straw colored hair was my horizon for the first few hours. He smiled down at me and kept working. Slowly, the world gained clarity. Images sharpened an borders defined themselves as he shaped and prodded my eyes into place, coming close enough to kiss me while he carved my irises. Every breath he took washed over my face, and I heard the softly whispered promises on each of them, and smiled unseen. He wanted to make me beautiful.

 

 

He molded my lips, my nose, my jaw. He lingered for an unwarranted amount of time over my neck and my breasts, seeking to give permanence to some imagined perfection. I had no doubt of his skill- the world I saw was proof enough. Nymphs laughed at me from across the room, fawns lurked in the shadows, scared of the light, and from where I saw, gracefully perched on my plinth, I could see them all. He sang as he worked, my lonely God, working his dexterous fingers over my calves, drawing lines of life all the way to my feet. He would flit between my fingers and my hair, sculpting one to be delicate, the other to be heavy, to fall and cover me from the eyes of the world. So my hair fell to my waist- even obscured my vision of him for a little bit- but he fixed it immediately. He wanted to see me. He wanted me to see.

 

 

Ever so often, he’d walk to the depression in the floor and bring me some more clay. He made a seat next to me, covered my nakedness with flowers and leaves, and left enough place for him to sit by me, as I lived and breathed only where he could see. And he never stopped making me. Sometimes, he’d remake my lips. Sometimes, he’d rework my feet, and I’d watch his sunny hair gleam in the morning light while he broke off my toes, one by one, and make me new ones. For the most part, I was beautiful enough for him, and he was happy with me.

 

 

Till the night he came in, and sat next to me, and wept. He put his head on my shoulder and cried like he was the only man left alive, like his heart had seen unspeakable things and they knew no other language but tears. And he howled with impotent rage, screaming and lashing out at my inadequate efforts to soothe him. He picked up a trowel and hacked at my face, gouging out my cheeks, my forehead, methodically destroying every feature I had, while I gaped soundlessly at him.

 

 

And in the morning he woke up in a rubble of existence, unable to watch him, but I felt him. Slowly he got up, penitent, and fetched more clay, to make me again.

 

 

I didn’t mind. He’d make me beautiful.

 

 

 

For The Story – The Old Bachelor’s Respite

The Old Bachelor’s Respite

 

 

 

 

I called her over for dinner
The table was bedecked, lavishly spread
Her place was set with the first soup, and salad
-Wine and a delicate vinaigrette
She walked in demurely, arm in the crook of my arm
And at the sight, very nearly lost her head

 

At the sight of her, I very nearly lost my head

 

She sat down gracefully, into the chair I pulled
It was very clear that she was visibly thrilled
The white arch of her throat stark against the blood red ruffle
Her gaze fluttered alluringly in my direction, calling
I took deep breaths to inhale her, compose myself, and stilled
My forced calm went unseen
She lingered lustfully on each dish instead
I knew it right then,
I just had to get into her head

 

I poured her another glassful, her eyes sparkling, crystal cut
The effort it took to restrain my appetite, was too much
Fork clashing with knife, a vessel overflowing with life, such
Was the pull that I almost left my own food untouched
The subtle press of her fingers on mine, as I passed the bread
Intoxicant for my vintage, I simply had to hurry
She was already getting ahead

They all threatened to get ahead
-I took a deep breath-
They never did
I was hungry, I decided petulantly
Dinner was served
Now it really was time I fed

 

I walked around to pour her one more, just
One more innocent glass
In a moment, her duck l’orange was cooling patiently, congealing
Into an indistinguishable meaty mass
Because her knife would descend no more, nor would
The orgasmic sigh, so softly, sound
She lay half splayed in her chair, lifelessly
As the blood pooled upon the ground
Her eyes were fixed, her face a rictus
A death mask, a last oh how could you!
I ignored it, pretty but mere accessory, as I chewed
Through that elegant neck’s sinews
Contorted, no doubt, but salty and delicious
-fresh is always best, as I’ve often said

I picked up the fork from her limp held fingers
It was time to get into her head

 

 

(c)CM
11.05.2016

Written for the story, The Old Bachelor’s Respite, found on Reddit.

 

 

Cheers, and bon appetit. 😉