JadedGrace

I. I found her sleeping behind the bricks in my bedroom wall. I called her Hannah and she called me 'Pretty Boy' which I liked a lot better than George. When I first found her she was as bereft of knowledge and weak as a kitten. I took care of her, nursed health back into her shattered mind and wasted limbs. She would look at me with her green cats-eyes and the world would swim. At first she didn't talk at all, just watched me with those unearthly eyes. I would wake up in the middle of the night and see her gaze piercing through my mind. It would follow me into my dreams and into my life outside of the room I was beginning to think of as h

i am untouchable they took me from my cradle and they bleached my hair and my eyes while the bone-white finger-moon looked on. howling and tearing, i am not myself, not anything, i am untouchable. i have no taste and no smell. i am no colour and your eyes have an aversion for me, while my ghost-bones and see-through fingers drift through all that is real and true. i drift i drift through time and i am untouchable. they burnt last year's silver effigy on the fire carrion shrieks and whoops carrying the stink and the heat and the sacrifice up to the blind sun. shiver and shake when i come near, see me too dancing in a bl

they told me to burn my wings there is a mirror and in it i see what i should be. i am 67% strange. i look at the skinny box-girls with their cookie-cutters and shiny eyes and mouths. i am 67% too much. there are glass splinters in my hands and in my eyes and i am running away from the siren's call, the sirens' wail while the red light flashes. i have gone 67% further than the edge of the world. there is a promise in the glittering teeth, there is a promise watching me from the monster's scales the world is a promise. i look for it and it cracks amd shifts into a hundred thousand drifting shards. i lose 67% of them be

it's been such a time-honoured tradition, how can any man do any differently? it's there, the evidence of it is everywhere. philomela's a nightingale, cassandra's burning in her tower and every girl is willing, really, no matter what she says. who can deny the pleasure of hard hands on thrashing skin, of causing bruises and tears, of your own sweet salvation and release at the expense of someone else? it's a form of artistry, an art of vermillion and indigo, of fragile glass and ripped-apart silk. you're just doing what's always been done and isn't that just grand and good and godly? dear lucrece, you should have

dido's on her pyre and i'm singing in the dark. won't you take me and make me somehow better, somehow real? i want to evaporate. she's gone incandescent, a vision of orange and red feathers, a golden skeleton of beauty rising ever higher, into the night sky. the marks on my skin have faded and without them (i don't remember. i don't know what i am anymore) could i look for myself in the nests of birds and the screams of vulpine creatures? dear spectator, this is all you have, a lost girl searching for a hopeless never-land and some queen burning her way across eternity. do we terrify you? or do you want us like you've

i want to write about a prison. i want to write of chapped lips and frostbitten fingers and the tintinnabulation of a tin cup against cruel steel bars. i dream in shattered prisms and the ghosts whisper to me in the voices of stolen children. i want to remember rain-poured kisses and the captive-bride moon. i don't want to remember you i want to write about faery tales and escape into eerie damp forests. i want the wolf to come to me and whisper sweet lies and air into my ears. i will lay in the dirt while the sowbugs crawl around my ribs and the maggots form a sticky necklace around my throat. i want the fireflies to perfo

It had not been a good week for Maddeus Finch. It should suffice to say that the recruitment process Pryce Industries had undertaken for it's sometimes less than legal dealings, had thrown up idiot after idiot. After hours of fruitless interviews with people who he was amazed could actually walk and breath simultaneously, with misspelt tattoos, he was more than ready to throw in the towel. It was with this mindset that he decided to pose a challenge for those who deemed themselves worthy to participate in the rebirth of the machine that was Pryce Industries. He entered the room , seeing the sorry lot whose type he was beginning to recognise

hey you broken-boned and bird thing is there still soot clinging to your eyelashes or was that just a vodka-soaked dream? if i pull you out of the fire will you tell me that i'm fucking beautiful no really, no really, no really, tears of honesty staining and calcifying your face, i am? call me your shirley manson because i would steal a ship or do time for you in the same way that i'm some supposedly porcelain epitome of beauty, lace-draped helen of troy, persephone edged in black and lightning broken-boned and bird thing, you're just that, irrevocably smashed like everyone else who dreams in colour and doesn't love me. its