morbid fascination

(12-25-00)

why do people have this morbid fascination with the girl who has one foot in her gravebed? why? do you like a pretty mind with pretty grotesque twistings of its ethereal body? why do you love this girl whose every breath is of her own ashes, burning burning in the heat of her emptiness? she wants to die now, a virgin, but fucks her brains out every night with the barrel of a gun. her nails and face are covered in streaks of black as her unshed ashen tears mingle with the rain. the gods are crying for her, the can't figure what went wrong. they made a pretty creature, they gave her a love, and still she hates them all; she runs away alone and leaves her naked body for them hanging from a sacred tree. she's all decked out for her own funeral in chains of silver and black, leaves and dirt finding their way into her perfectly mussed, stick-straight hair. it hangs down almost to her waist. and as her body spins from the tree you see on the other side its roughly cut off by an untrained hand and tear-clouded eye, standing spikey against her pale face. your eyes become hollow grey as you watch these images flying from the mind of the girl who always knows the right thing to say. she's always been empty, cold with herself, full only of reflections and words and blood she's yet to get rid of. she plays the semantics, she knows the word games, and she knows the soft spots where to hit. thats how she draws you in, isn't it? your face twists in her pain, but you still watch, mesmerized. as you take her down from her tree, you see she really wasn't perfect. her nail polish is smudged, and chipping at the edges. her mascara is messy. a tear did escape her perfectly dry eyes and its black trail runs faintly down her dirty face. and you sit down on a stump and cry for her. why? why do you have this morbid fascination with the girl who has always had one foot in her grave?