Desreal: <font face=times size=2 color=664064><I>when nails scape the sky, do stars collide, any?</i></font>

i ** o ** l ** a ** n ** t ** h ** e **
the girl who sings in black and white
and thinks in haphazard verse.

Her eyes shine violet in the night, narrowed slivers that smolder like the crescent moon. Their thick black lashes reach out and up, the whispers of whisker hair above them swaying with each blink. Her heart is a loud thrush in her ears, ebbing and flowing like tides, announced by the boom of a heart-drum; (over beaten to the point of absolute bitterness, the venison hood sagging and the cured ties coming undone. Whose fault is it, then, that her heart is weary now? That the skin is hardened and bitter, useless for the dance of life as it produces only a muted bellow like a mewing doe in birth.)

She is hollowed but her eyes are barred and knowing. They have seen death and known sorrow. No longer, though, will she open these eyes to such things. She has closed them, seeing only what she whishes to see – only what she chooses. It is her ears that betray her now. She has nothing to plug them with to stop the rush of voices save for a furiously taciturn heart and the sound of her own reticent thoughts.

Sometimes there is only silence and it is in those times she is most afraid, most callous. No guilt seeps into the marrow of her bones as she walks through fields whose earth is made of rotting flesh and their rivers filled of curdling blood. The thought often even intrigues her rather than repulse.

Every bone beneath the soft taupe color of her skin is severe. The black and blonde and tan a glaring beacon in the dark as the moon catches every shine and every reflection in the coarse hairs of her body. She grimaces, lifting a dark lip as some severe laugh takes shape in the space created. Why should she care if she stands our or fits in? She needs no one.

No one but herself.
And, perhaps, not even that.