Eating Disorder

One day you eat lemons, because the internet says
lemons help detox. And your thighs could use all the 
detoxing they can get.

The next day you eat cake because you think skinny
could never taste as wonderful as this slice of
ultra moist chocolate layered heaven.

You obsessively weigh yourself, counting down to the
ounce just how much your belly fat jiggles over your
jeans and how much that piece of cake cost you.

You eat nothing. You don't deserve it, you miserable
waste of human flesh and space. Even the air you breathe
is too calorie dense for you and you practice holding
your breath to make yourself look smaller.

Cake, lemons (no fear of scurvy here), air, measuring
tapes, work out videos, sweat and tears of frustration.
You just want to grab a little slice of happiness,
swallow the sun in bite sized pieces until you glow from
the inside out.

You drink nothing but water, you eat nothing but lemons,
wracking your body down by a pound. Need to run faster,
eat better, swallow the diet pills, measure your food
in eighths of a cup for one meal.

Then one day, the person you so obsessively abused,
forgets how to be and simply vanishes into your punished
body. There is nothing left of you, except you. And
you don't even love you.

Anxiety

"Oh, hello," I say.
It seems you have come to pay
a visit and I am woefully
unprepared for your company.
My anxiety is like a frightened child,
crawling into my bed, inviting me to share
all of it's nightmares so that sleep seems
terribly far away.
It causes my mind to chuckle at
itself. I know this is silly and foolish,
there is no reason, but that is all the
reason I need to want to fight or fly.
My anxiety is sometimes ever present,
sometimes hardly here, sometimes
creeping along the southern walls of
whichever brain's hemisphere, I do not know.
It drops in, uninvited, at the
most random moments.
Whispering nonsense that makes
only sense to my fears.
It wrinkles the blankets,
races my heart up and down my ribs,
like a ladder to some heaven or hell,
knowing very well there is neither.
It wrings its hands against
imagined slights and old debts.
It trembles at phone calls and
knocks upon the door.
It forgets that we must eat,
forgets we must drink,
forgets all but the encompassing
fears.
My anxiety, it is a friend I do not
want to speak with anymore, but
somehow I can't seem to show it the
door.
Only, opening my arms, pretending
I am fine. I am satisfied with this
shell of a life, hugged by a butcher
with a skillful knife.
My anxiety, it kisses me to sleep,
rolls itself into my waking dreams,
shapeshifts into things I think I can't trust,
then back again.
My anxiety is a living, breathing, being.
A guest that refuses to leave.
A child that wants only to share its dreams.
And I am alone with it.

The Skeleton Remains

The skeletal remains of your kisses
clink around my incisors, tickle the
ivory of my molars, tap dance across
my canines.

At night I can hear them, tinkling
like chandeliers in a breeze. I can
taste the bittersweet, hollowed, bones
of them curled against my tongue.

Their sugar melts into cavities of
emptiness, blackening my teeth with
the ash of them. They rub themselves
against my taste buds, reminders.

In the still of your long absence,
all of my teeth have rotted away, wasted
by the frame of your feelings for
me. Too sweetly  bitter to remain in me.

The ghosts of your kisses have replaced
the skeleton of your love. They howl,
but at least the clink of your chandeliers
against my teeth has ceased.

Safety.

Her son won't come home.
His new home is decorated with headstones.
He wears maggots as one would evening wear.
He no longer sings.
He no longer laughs.
He longer breathes.
He can't breathe.

Her son won't be coming home.
What should've promised safety,
should've protected him,
murdered him for holding a toy,
a sandwich, his hands in the air.
He doesn't play anymore.

They murder our fathers
and condemn us for our fatherless lives.
They murder our husbands
and mock our single parenting skills.
We can't run for fear of accusations,
justifications, "precautions."

Her son won't be coming home anymore.
Another Emmett Till for a different era.
Another Michael Brown.
Another Tamir Rice.
Another Eric Garner.

We Can't Breathe.

Love Poem to a Cannibal

Blend me with all of
your raw fruit.

Shake me together with
your tossed salads.

Mix me into all of you
until I am dissolved.

Add a pinch of salt,
a sprinkle of sugar.

I was never flavorful
on my own.

Bake me at 375° until I
am done to your satisfaction.

I hope I am delicious.

The Dream

They always started the same way.

She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."

He didn't know what true fear was.

While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.

The dream always started this way.

Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.

It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.

"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."

It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.

"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."

This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.

Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.

This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.

She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.

The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.

She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?

From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.

She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.

The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.

Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.

The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.

Her mother looks at her, smiling.

"Look how pretty you are."

The First Time.

It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?

His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.

I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.

"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.

"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.

"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.

His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.

Scarlett

It was her lipstick. It wasn't subtle, much like the wearer. It was bright and loud, proclaiming just as much as her words. When she walked in the room everyone stared, locked on her lips as she passed.

"We weren't expecting you this evening, Scarlett." said Andrew, sipping his lavender tea.

"As if I could resist the events you and Alan have cooked up for tonight." she winked, slightly wrinkling her nose. He knew that look all too well. She had mischief in mind, her lipstick staining her lips like bloody leaves and her autumn colored hair free flowing.

She was dressed for battle.

The lust he felt surging through him made their eyes lock and she smiled, again, before she was gone.

"Scarlett," he whispered, feeling out of breath. She had come, prepared for war with Alan, and he was helpless to stop it. Would it always be like this? How long had he been divided between them? Three years? Four?

He followed her through the ballroom, her red dress trailing like a bloody ribbon behind her. She would turn to smile at him, her red lips revealing glistening white teeth.

It was too little too late when he finally caught her. Alan's white suit was blooming flowers and Scarlett's lipstick was smeared across the marble floor. Even the silence screamed with the loss.

The Hospital Room.

The scent of the hospital room clings to my skin like saran wrap to a plate.
Its not too cold or too warm, it is tepid and smells faintly of chloraseptic.
You are lying in the too big bed, your limbs purpled from the needles,
bruises stamped across your flesh like a child's sticker-book.

Your lids are half open, heavy from drugs you would never have taken,
if you were willing. All of you sags into the bed, hidden in folds of too
white blankets and a gown that does nothing to flatter your body.
You look wilted, like a flower in a too sunny window with no water.

Most of what you say comes out in mumbles and indistinguishable
gasps. You are shrinking, but expanding at the same moment. You
look like Death has come to visit you, but has not yet come to claim
you as his. Your eyes speak of fear that he will return.

And I am afraid too. Afraid of the languid look of lost strength in your eyes.
I am afraid of your bony hands, a pale pin-cushion for needles and IV's.
I hold on to you, because you are all the strength I have left inside me.
I hold on, because I am afraid to let you go when you are so calm.

The fight fades from your eyes too fast. The last bit of light fading before
the sun rises. And you are gone far from me before I even have so much
as a moment to say goodbye. Standing in an empty hospital room, your
clothes folded neatly on a too big bed. The smell still clings to me.

The Meaning of being the Fat Girl

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."

Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.

Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."

Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.

Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.

Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."

Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."

Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."

Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.

Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.

Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?

Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."

Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.

Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.

Writing Exercise: The Statue of Liberty

Phil stood on Ellis Island taking pictures of the Statue of Liberty. It was a fairly
average New York day, nothing too spectacular. In fact, he was already starting to get a
little bored when this oddly dressed couple approached him.

"Excuse me, sir!" said a woman dressed in tie dye extreme, her long black hair braided
with pink and white ribbons.

"We were wondering," said her companion, his beard decorated with bows.

"Yes, wondering!" said the woman, her smile a little too practiced.

"Wondering if you would like,"

"Yes, if you would like to,"

"Join us for a tour!"

They both smiled, which slightly creeped him out.

"What kind of tour?" he asked, holding his camera in front of his chest like it would
protect him.

"Why, a tour of the Statue of Liberty!" cried the woman, her impossibly perfect smile
widening.

"Its only one of the best things about New York!" cried her companion.

"I don't know..." said Phil, backing up a bit. Before he could fully escape, the woman
had his arm and the man was leading the way. They dragged him up to the statue and began
spouting off random facts about Lady Liberty's journey across the ocean.

"This is the entrance right here!" exclaimed the man, opening the door and ushering his
companion and Phil in.

Looking up, Phil noticed something slightly amiss. There were legs. Impossibly long and
slender; and further up was a shapely bottom and a delicately shaped female sex. Even
further up were perfectly rounded breasts and the face of Liberty shone with such sweet
gentility that it almost knocked him backwards.

"Wow." he murmured, completely in awe.

"Isn't she lovely?" said the woman, her grip tightening on his arm.

"Isn't she a goddess?" said the man, his hands coming around Phil's waist.

"Hey!" he cried, struggling.

From the shadows came at least a dozen more men and women, their smiles eerie and their
eyes glowing with lust.

Over powering him, they drug him up toward Liberty's breasts. Securing him so that he
stood before her face, they cut off his clothing. He squirmed and tried to escape, but
found he couldn't move.

"It will all be over soon." said the woman, her eyes seemingly shifting in color and
shape.

Pulling knives from their clothes they began to cut him until a decent amount of blood
flowed. Gathering some into a cup they offered it to Liberty. She drank deeply and,
before they slit his throat, he saw her smile.

The Dragon King: Part Seven

Waking up, Aysel saw the cave split asunder like an over-sized geode.

The Dragon construct lay, shattered, a small distance off. Its underbelly was torn open revealing the inner-workings and beside it lay the body of Emyr.

The land was scorched beyond repair, the caverns shattered. She stood to look over her realm, her damaged wing fluttering as she righted herself. For miles the ground was strewn with bodies; goblins, faeries, woodland creatures. Limping, she moved toward the cavern opening.

Beside a Faery body was a ruby eye and a tiny flower, the only living thing for miles.

The Dragon King: Part Six

After they had traveled a day, they stopped to rest. All was quiet in the camp and Aysel could not sleep. She wandered the camp, her wings twitching with nerves.

"Milady," said Faolán. "Ye must rest. We have a long march ahead of us."

"Aye, Faolán, thou art right. Yet, I feel Emyr's approach in my bones and I am wracked with fear that we have traveled in vain."

Before Faolán could reply, an arrow tore through the tent beside him, setting it ablaze. Over the crest of a landing, poured the goblin horde, Emyr at the front.

Grabbing their weapons, the faeries moved to attack.

"Hide in one of the tunnels!" cried Faolán, withdrawing his sword and flying to the attack.

"I am no delicate butterfly, Faolán." replied Aysel, hefting a battle axe and joining the fray.

Spying the queen, Emyr loaded another arrow. Taking aim, he released, sending the arrow through one of Aysel's wings. The wing ripped, sending her tumbling. Barely able to stop the free-fall, she found herself above the abyss with nothing to save her. Fighting against the pain in her wing, she struggled upward, flitting, drunkenly, toward Emyr.

"You thought you would call upon the Dragons for aid, Aysel? Where are your Dragons?" he barked, chortling.

"You will not speak to my Queen in that manner!" cried Faolán, darting toward the Goblin King, his weapon held high to strike.

Quick as a snake, Emyr shot Faolán, his arrow hitting with a sickening thud. The Faery knight looked shocked for a moment before tumbling into the black chasm.

"Faolán!" cried Aysel, moving too late to catch him.

Turning toward Emyr, Aysel held her battle axe aloft, her undamaged wings fluttering frantically to keep her balanced. The glow of the sconces seemed to set her wings ablaze and her apricot hair seethed like raging flames about her alabaster face. Her damaged wing hung, limply, at her side, throwing her off kilter no matter how she tried to steady herself.

The Goblin King smiled, his teeth gleaming, and lifted his bow again.

"Aye, ye look the radiant Queen, and fierce too. But I will have you, Aysel, and your whole court as well. You cannot frighten me with mythos and old wives' tales."

"Nay, good Emyr, I'll have none of thee, nor thy ilk, to sully my court. Mythos, say thee? I awaken no myth." Raising her face toward the unseen ceiling, Aysel lifted her voice in a scream to shake the very halls of the city.

He roared with laughter, lowering his bow to clasp his ribs.

"You think I'll be unnerved by howling in ancient halls? I have drawn wails the likes of which would set your pretty hair on end. Scream away, Aysel. You will be mine if I have to tear the wings from your body."

Without warning, the earth beneath his feet gave a jolt. Emyr looked down, into the abyssal labyrinth below him, before looking back into the plum hued eyes of the Faery Queen. She smiled as the whole cave began to tremble and the stone floor began to roll. From the belly of the old city rose a roar and Emyr was tossed back as a mighty wind rushed upward and out. Swept up in a surging tidal wave of motion, Aysel foundered and was thrown upward. Unable to right herself, she tumbled back down.

Coming up out of the chaos, a clawed hand caught her, holding her in a loose grip as it moved toward the mouth of the cavern. She saw only a glimpse of burnished gold, polished ivory and the frightened face of the Goblin King before she was taken by a swoon.

The Dragon King: Part Five

In the dark, Kiri could feel, rather than see, the voice of Uduak. Sounds took on physicality and her heart throbbed in time with the words.

"There must be a dreamer."

The shape rising out of the darkness was that of a Dragon.

"Please," she begged, trying to crawl away. "I have only desired to return to my grove."

"There must be a dreamer." replied a chorus. A million eyes opened, lighting the crypt. Hands took hold of her, dragging her toward Uduak. He appeared to be made of stone, a part of the tomb. His onyx eyes seemed to pin her to the ground. Before him lay the fabled Prince of Dreams, Prince of Dragons. The chorus whispered his name in the darkness at the edge of her vision.

"Arman."

The chassis gleamed ivory, beneath the sheen glowed red and blue circuitry. The dead eyes were emerald and, though he was magnificent, he was dull. A shell.

"Awaken, my son." said Uduak, his voice tender. His claws reached out to caress the construct and the eyes suddenly came alive.

Her screams reverberated through out the crypt, sending the waves above into white-capped frenzy and roaring up past the marching faeries.

Faolán looked down into the winding maze of darkness, and shivered.

The Dragon King: Part One

The faery knight stood guard at the mouth of the cavern. The entrance of the abandoned dragon city glowed, eerily, in the moon’s pale light, causing the young chevalier to nervously flutter his iridescent wings. As a man-at-arms in the court of Lua, it was not the moon that unnerved him. Rather it was the things that could lurk in the shadows, and escape the moon’s wandering gaze, that caused him disquiet.

It was folly to be here, he thought. The whole quest was lunacy. He would never express such doubts to the Queen, but her obsession with awaking the dragon king was bordering on insanity. He was not the only courtier whispering behind their wings about the queen’s odd behavior, either. The court had been buzzing with rumours, for at least a season, and the capture of the dryad witch had only increased them. Sighing, he leaned against the polished jet archway, his wings rustling, in a slightly irritated way, in the cool breeze. Who was he, after all, to question the actions of his queen?

Out of the darkness came a low, menacing, growl, snapping him out of his thoughts and to attention. Dropping down, he edged against the wall, slowly drawing his weapon. His wickedly curved scimitar slid slowly from the sheath, the sharpened edge faintly glistening. The growls grew louder, followed by the sound of teeth gnashing and the war cries of goblins. From the silver-leafed trees strode Emyr, the Goblin King, his obsidian bow drawn and arrow nocked. He was followed, closely, by a horde of goblin warriors, many of them astride the hairless wolves of the Cristal Mountains, carrying the meticulously honed bones of fallen enemies.

The goblin king stopped, raising a long fingered hand to halt the army. The moon hid behind dark gray clouds, as if she were frightened, blotting out the stars and casting the earth into shadows. Emyr’s long, colourless, hair seemed to glimmer in the sudden, and complete, darkness and his eyes gleamed like icy gold. He raised his bow, aiming into the lightless void of the cavern’s mouth. His keen sight fell on the frantically beating heart of his prey and he smiled, wickedly.

“The queen expects to awaken the dead and defeat me?” he hissed, his nocked arrow glittering green with poison. The faery chevalier said nothing, believing himself hidden from view. He held his weapon in front of him, as if it would shield him further from the horde. His wings spread out, fully unfurling, their colour shifting to the black of the cave’s outer walls. Thinking himself still concealed, the knight crept toward the inner corridor of the dragon city.

Again Emyr smiled, his jagged teeth capped with sharpened gemstones, and let the arrow fly. Moving too late to escape, the dart embedded itself in a muscle, betwixt the heart and shoulder, of the target.

He looked surprised for only a moment before he began to convulse from poison. He clawed at the arrow, choking and spewing pink flecked foam. A small trickle of blood dripped from his eyes, as though he were crying, and he collapsed in a twitching heap. Nonplussed, the goblin king strode forward, stepping over the fallen carcass, and entered the Caverns of Omra.

Bookish

She always sat in the corner of the book store, huddled in a corner with a cup of high priced coffee, barricaded by the shelves. Behind the walls were wars and love affairs, murders and rising kingdoms, things that couldn't possibly exist but she wished would. Every day she grew smaller and every day she grew bigger. She grew a spine, her ribs becoming covers to hold the writing of her insides, her fingers grasping the pages of her body. She sat huddled in a corner, barricaded by the shelves of romance and horror, waiting for someone to pick her up and read her.

Carousel (9/19/2013)

Georgia walked further into the abandoned apple orchard. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the twisted branches and a summer fog began to settle.

The sound of carnival music, drifting through the night air, seemed to announce her entrance. In the middle of the meadow, lit up like the fourth of July, stood an old carousel.

The horses rose and fell to the carnival music. The lights twirled and danced, illuminating the grassy meadow with pink and gold sparks.

The air bristled as she stepped toward the carousel and a great wind seemed to blow the lights out. She gasped, suddenly surrounded by shadows.

Phantom laughter sent shivers up her spine.

Her body was never found.

Android (9/18/2013)

Julia stepped out of the neon pools of light into the shadows of an alleyway. It seemed darker in the alley, as if the glittery psychedelia of the bar signs were being swallowed up. There was something else off about this particular alley, but she didn't turn away.

She felt drawn in, the fear and the curiosity driving her further and further into the dark. She reached a dead-end, almost close enough to kiss the white brick, and sighed. Gingerly, she caressed the brick, half expecting to find a knob or opening.

When an android, his synthetic flesh torn on his chest and face, walked through and grabbed her, she did not have the breath to scream.

Bone

He brushes calloused fingers over her ribs, a quiet, and strange, arousal quickening within him. He is imagining peeling away layer after layer of muscle and fat, skin and tendons. He pushes aside the offal, finding his prize, ivory buried in warm, crimson, silk. He imagines cracking her sternum and gently pulling apart her ribs so that they flex open like a hinged box. That is his prize, her ribs fluttering open like a butterfly's wings in the sun.

Her screams, as he pulls her apart, will be as beautiful as any symphonic glory dreamed by Mozart or Beethoven. He feels his arousal reaching a peak, feels it building beneath the wicked desires. He slows to a teasing thrust reveling in her moans as he denies her again and again. Soon he will make her slick with blood, prying apart the flesh and pushing into the cavity he will open.

Her hazel eyes remain closed, savoring the heft and feel of him sliding in and out of her. She arches her back, thrusting her chest up to meet his fingers as they brush little circles around her breasts. She does not feel him changing. She does not see the shift from lover to murderer. Nor does she see him take up a wicked little blade. She is lost in the moment, her hips thrusting up to meet his, taking him as far within herself as she can.

She gasps, her eyes fluttering open as she feels the knife find purchase. A rigid jolt of agony shocks her system as it tears through her outer layer. She looks up at him, his black eyes glittering like stars in the evening light. His eyes widen, like a shark's, at the smell of blood. It takes a moment for her to find her voice, a scream ripping out of her as he causes another tear in her fabric.

He revels in the music he makes. An orchestra conductor, he instructs his flutes and violins. He encourages the high notes to crashing crescendos, building them higher and higher. And, deep underneath all the soprano notes, builds his own bass. It takes a moment to realize he is screaming with her. Though his screams reverberate with joy and pleasure.

Again he slows, drawing out the sweetness of the moment. He gazes, lovingly, at what he is creating. Like a curious, and none-too-gentle, child he begins to explore his masterpiece. He pushes her apart as he continues to slide in and out of her, blood pooling just beneath her buttocks. The blood serves to lubricate each stroke as he draws closer orgasm. He invades her, looking for what he wants, not caring if she is still screaming.

He separates her breasts, causing rifts and valleys to grow ever wider between the two. He kisses her bloody sternum, shining brightly in the light of a naked bulb. He kisses her bloody bones as he bursts into her, shaking with the intensity of his little death.

Spent, he pulls away, pearlescent beads of crimson staining his lips. He looks deep into her eyes, now glazed and dull. She is still breathing, he can see her lungs moving. He smiles and kisses her mouth, staining her paling skin. She does not respond, a bubble of gleaming spittle beginning at the corner of her reddened lips.

Now begins his vivisection, the dissection of his new favorite doll, though no plaything lasts forever. He doesn't bother to tie her down, she couldn't escape now, even if he let her go. With legs still shaking, he retrieves his bolt cutters, eager to begin.

He snips a ligament, a tether line for rib to sternum, a muffled scream gurgling up from her exposed viscera. He smiles and turns her head so that the vomit leaks out, he doesn't want her to die yet. Though she will die before he is finished.

Another ligament is cut, another pitiful scream. Another and another, until he has only one left. With a jubilant cry, he frees the sternum and removes it. He lays it aside and begins the task of removing her organs.

Lovingly, he cradles each one before placing it in a sealed container. Later he will throw them against his canvases so that they splatter. He will name each piece after its respective organ, sign his name in blood and call it 'avant garde.' He will place these works of 'art' behind glass so that the smell of rot and decay is hidden.

Once all the organs have been removed he begins detaching the ribs from the backbone. As each one is removed, he places it in a bowl of cool water to remove the marrow. Later he will lightly cook the marrow until it is succulently tender and pair it with a delicate rose wine. With the marrow removed he drills randomly placed holes and fills the bone with a thick red paint. It oozes, like blood, and he hangs it above a blank canvas to drip.

Finally he begins the task of removing her other bones. He removes the marrow from each before he cleans them. He washes each one in a bleach solution until they glimmer. Smiling, he holds each one up to the light, examining and polishing.

He recreates her skeleton, after the bones are cleaned and drained, but as he sees it. He positions her arms to that her head is cradled in front of her pelvis. He paints her ribs in neon colors fanning them out as a crown for her skull. Using one femur for her backbone, he drapes her vertebrae across her hips.

Taking out his Polaroid camera he photographs his malleable work of art. He christens himself the Picasso of the macabre. He will re-paint the bones, readjust the scene to suit each new muse. He will fall in love with her over and over again, just as he destroys her every time.

Her skeletal remains are a jumble of puzzle pieces waiting to be placed. He will re-create her as he sees her in his fevered imagination. God and Eve playing in the Garden of desire and reincarnation until the end of time. No serpent, no devil, no temptation of evil as he recreates, her piece by piece, in the form of whatever Goddess he chooses. He is the creator, an artist of infinite imagination.

He will cherish her, that is, until the next muse demands his love, demands his worship. Then she will be old bones, forgotten in the abyss of memory.

Skin

He spreads her legs, caresses her silky inner thigh, elated by her ecstasy. He begins with her lips, tentatively tasting tongue and teeth, gently urging her mouth to open like a flower in full bloom. He kisses her, enjoying the sensation, kissing down her neck and cupping one perfect breast. His mouth is warm and wet as he tenderly suckles one pink rose bud, devouring every shiver emitted by his victim.

He moves along her stomach, his tongue flicking her belly button as it journeys down. He revels in the smell of her, sweet and heady, full of Eros' secrets and whispers. He grazes his lips, soft like satin, against her thigh, trailing down to the crook of her knee. She is his goddess, his living work of art; he devours every delicacy offered up on the altar of lust. He is as passionate as any Grecian lover or fairy-tale prince, breathless before true beauty.

He returns to her lips, those sweet plumped lips, full of delicious longing. He nips her bottom lip, cherry colored flesh caught in an ivory snare, tantalized by their luscious shape and curve. He is captive to her, tamed by her and seduced by need. He nibbles on her ear, tugging playfully on one ripe lobe, his hand skimming over her skin until goose bumps begin to rise. He moves his hand in-between her splayed legs, teasing fingers dance along her skin, eliciting whimpers as her hips thrust upward, searching for fulfillment.

In a moment he is on top of her, pinning her to the bed, heat racing through his blood at a break-neck speed. He grinds hips against hips, keeping her pinned beneath him. Muscles ripple through his shoulders as he controls arousal and rage. He holds her hands above her head, sliding one unoccupied hand down to the straps attached to the bed. He pulls the binding up and secures her hands.

At first she struggles, fluttering like a caged butterfly, they always do. Then she laughs, a nervous little giggle spilling past those luscious lips. He does not laugh, only intent on what will be his masterpiece, his intricate labyrinth, a puzzle of flesh. He leans back on his haunches, surveying what is to be his wonderland, gathering every detail and point. He rolls off of her, releasing her legs and hips, his gaze drifting over her.

She blushes, such a pretty shade of pink, a rose would be jealous. She seems to realize she is naked, trying to escape her trap in a futile attempt to cover herself. He permits himself a moment of inward laughter as he watches her struggle, only a moment. He pulls her legs apart, tying one to one side of the bed and tying the other to another side. The crimson flush spreads, racing like rosy fire over her perfectly flawless ivory skin.

Gingerly, he bends to clasp a pert nipple, a hand snaking down her stomach and in-between her legs. She fights the straps, trying to close her knees, he laughs around the breast in his mouth. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike his last piece. Methodically, he strokes her until she is slick against her will, continuously nibbling on her rosy tips. Rhythmically, he follows along, low moans escaping his lips.

"No," he says to himself, he will not crest that wave yet, not until he has finished this vision. She must be perfect, the ultimate deconstruction of mortality, a living puzzle fully taken apart, piece by piece. Then he must put her back together, a modern day Dali, a more brilliant artist than Picasso. He releases her breast and stays his hand, allowing his fingers to lazily trace her clitoris. After a moment he removes his hand completely and leaves to retrieve his tools.

Alone, she begins to tremble. Fear and arousal warring with one another for the right to her mind. She contemplates escape, shaking the fists held tight in their bonds. There seems to be no way out of this now. No foreseeable escape or improbable rescue. Her heart sinks as realization takes over, rising into terror that threatens to stifle her. She screams, pleading with the emptiness to release her. No one hears her, except for him, gathering his tools.

He returns, his heat replaced with a cold plastic smile. He is Ken about to return to his Barbie, his toy and the love of his life. He thinks to himself in Technicolor verbs, laying out his art and expressing his heart in shades of blood and bone. "Where to begin?" he wonders. Pulling out a pair of scissors he moves to her head. He grabs at her long braid, pulling hard and away from her scalp. She hears the snip of the shears and feels the release as he claims his prize.

Carefully he sets down the braid, laying down the scissors and returning with a straight razor. Ever so gently, he begins an incision at the connection of labia to labia and slowly moves upward, bisecting her. She cries out, a cold shiver going through her as the cut blossoms under his touch. Recalling his scissors he gingerly cuts flesh from skin, working as a seamstress with her fabric. She gags, trying to focus through blurring vision. Blood pools underneath her, soaking the bed.

For hours he strips skin from flesh, the woman who once lived within long since departed, probably from exsanguinations. He is so careful, laying out each finished piece like patterns for a dress. The woman no longer exists, she is only a perfect body, a puzzle to be undone. He will lovingly peel away skin until she is only muscle and bone. Setting aside what he has cut, preparing for the moment when it will be sewn back together.

Once he has finished skinning her, sticky with her blood and other various fluids, he will violate that thing of muscle and skeletal mass until he has reveled in the last of what she was. Then he will rearrange his pieces of human clothing on his last piece’s skeletal mannequin, pinning here and there until it hangs perfectly. Or perhaps this time he will try to make it into leather, which would last much longer. It makes him shiver, remembering how smooth she was and how soft the leather would be.

Once he is finished he will discard the petty parts of that once supple body, wallow in the bloody bed and masturbate to the delicious memories now invading his mind. He will bleach her bones and dye her hair, recreate her on canvas and in photographs. He will put back together this puzzle, content for now with this plaything. For his next piece maybe he’ll splatter blood on clean bone or paint clean skin with hollow needles full of color.

A true artist and lover, Romeo alone with a deconstructed Juliet.