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Poems and Stories and Journals by ParasiticPariah

Words that Inspire by toxic--sunrise

words by RebelPandaFish

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Submitted on
June 27, 2012
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45 (who?)
    You called it a whole other world. "It's a fortress," you tell me when we sit at the bay window, thrown wide open. The spider webs would cut thousands of crystal strokes under my windowsill in between rainy seasons, and each morning we'd sit out in the yard and I'd watch you sketch the dewdrops ebbed in the tiny satin tightropes. Your father hated them, but you wouldn't let him touch them. "Everything so geometric and miniature. It's amazing." The structure of my bones became geometric and miniature, too, so you could trace every line – sitting in that window, with the curtains billowing like butterfly wings.
      But I never noticed that you never noticed the butterflies.


    You called me your little fairy girl. "Little fairy girl," you tell me in the kitchen. My mother has just wed your father and I already like you. "Little fairy girl, so small and fragile." Couldn't you see it, Jeremy? Couldn't you see how I followed you like a moth would to flame? You plucked me from the vine and kept me in a vase of water. Add one to your collection.
      You collected small things, and I was stupid enough to shrink myself so I could fit.


    You called it our secret. You told me that stepbrothers and sisters weren't supposed to do this. "I can't," you say as I fold under the comforter. Your finger is on my wrist and you run the pad of thumb over the jutting bone. "We can't. You know that." Then you called me by that damning nickname, and I thought it was affection. You didn't have to reject me, Jeremy, but you did.
      I didn't have to be sick, but I was.


    You called me out on it. You pointed to the spaces between my thighs, at the sun filtering through like the slats of blinds. At the vertebrae stacked up my spine like rosary beads. "I'm okay," I say. I tell your father and my mother the same thing later. And even though you weren't asking if I was okay or not, you accepted it. They both did. And you, Jeremy.
      But that. That really was okay. I'd already accepted that you just didn't care enough.


    You called me a liar. You found the pills making a medicated knot in the pipes and you screamed over and over again, asking why, why do I do this. "I did it for you," I whisper. Everything was always for you, Jeremy. Everything. I just wanted to be the little fairy girl, with the crystal wings and the dress made of spider silk. I wanted to be small enough to be in your pocket and learn your secrets.
      I'd been dying to be thin, but nobody had the heart to tell me that now I was just dying.


    You called me a freak. There were no secrets left for you to tell when you finally told me what you thought of me. I was the only skeleton in your closet. But your words were a guillotine blade on my throat and you just kept slicing. "You're sick," you spit like a curse. "You need help." And with each step I take toward you, you fall back, farther away. You were an ocean wave, Jeremy, and I was the shore.
      Until I was the spider, and you were your father, crushing me under your thumb.


    You called your father. You sat out on the curb and lit a cigarette. You repeated all of my lies in a scream into your cell phone to him. And I sat up in window and just watched. "She's trying to kill herself," you yell, but only because you don't understand. The curtains were tossed in the breeze, like before; they weren't butterfly wings anymore. I wasn't a butterfly, all sinew and yarn like I was. I was still just a caterpillar, and they were the cocoon around me. I could never put enough between you and me to block out my lies, projected from your mouth across the whole neighborhood, though.
      You missed some. The biggest lies were the ones I told myself about you.


    You called it a fortress. Everything so geometric and miniature. The summer after you went off to school and I came back, I ripped every spider web out from under the windowsill. I plucked the legs off of the tarantulas before your father could find his broom. But I let the butterflies live. Cocoons grew along the gutters and we all emerged together when you came home for Thanksgiving. Not like you'd ever notice, Jeremy.
      And not like I'd ever mind either way.
not like you'd ever notice.

I spent too long watching the tarantula hawks in my backyard, and taught the mockingbird up on the wire how to mimic a telephone while I was writing this.

I wouldn't call this fiction. It could be anybody's story - even somebody you know. Learning to break free.
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shehrozeameen Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
I'll just put this on record by saying I liked this, I found nothing to critique, and I feel that the open-ended nature of this prose makes it a very intriguing read.

It could be anybody's story. Well done.
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2014   Writer
Thank you very much. :heart:
shehrozeameen Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Anytime. :) I featured this work for the literature roadtrip
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Feb 11, 2014   Writer
I saw that. Thank so much for the honor. :D
shehrozeameen Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Sihx Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2013  Student Digital Artist
wow. This got my eyes tearing up. Its.... so beautiful ;___;   I love all of your writings !!! <3
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2013   Writer
Thank you so much!
InsomniaRose Featured By Owner Jul 1, 2012
Lovely :D
And haunting, in a way - seeing what we do to conform ourselves, trying to make ourselves a certain definition of what we consider 'beautiful'. It's frightening what lengths we will go to so that we may become "desirable"
colbalt-rain Featured By Owner Jul 1, 2012   Writer
And yeah, I was hoping some of the readers caught what I was trying to convey in this. Glad you did, and thanks again for the fave/comment. Yours always make me happy. c:
Rhi-Raven97 Featured By Owner Jun 29, 2012  Student Traditional Artist
have you ever read Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson? she also wrote Speak... your story reminds me of her beautiful tact for words in that book, but i like the poetry aspect of it even better :)
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