Papercut. Chapter 33

It feels like a sudden bang on the head, like a first gasp after choking on bubbles, like being torn away from death. Images and memories slide into my mind slowly, digging into my cells, explaining my existence. It was reading me like a book, holding it with one hand sideways watching the pages slip onto the other part, its letters burning my presence, as the other hand holds it up, a card.

There are no lips against mine asides the glass, as it strokes my lips, a hand which I do not see, but lick, my eyes closed, eyes lured up as I stare into a spot where eternities meet, as if it were ice sharpened by an rectangle.

Sharper even.

Lola.

Kayleen.

Alice.

Him in a skirt.

The homosexuality which taunts you.

But maybe it's the incest which lures, my hair can get darker up to his and so can my eyes, what if he is what I supposed to look like until I stopped growing, my height above one fifty.

They all dance in my head, wearing matching shirts, nothing underneath, nothing shaved and then Norman grabs Kayleen, excited, he strokes her cheeks, as they go white among the red nose, he licks the nose and leans a kiss, staring and he eats her lips, softly, her face, a cookie, as he goes in.

I blink.

It's a fast circle, all around me, a crown of sunlight upon my head, as I hold the rays above as they tangle me inside, make a wardrobe on my body.

They are laughing.

Norman mouths lyrics, as he takes a gun and licks the entrance, let me lick it too, I see myself, as Norman slides a hand under my shoulder blade. He sticks out his tongue as he aims to my forehead and then he slides into my mouth and shoots, mouthing his name as he kisses me.

It’s my stop.

I run out of it, losing every stranger in sight, as I’m paranoid to see known and useless faces for me.

I’m afraid to see blonde, red or black.

Or a broken mirror on the floor.

So basically I’m afraid of every single bloody female.

I see a female, as her face is hidden from my thoughts as she kisses Frankie and waves at me, shyly, she's seen my second self.

Womanizer.

I see her pressing her lips against his neck, as she winks at me.

Her face goes red, it goes out in hair as a tongue goes into my split-personality's mouth, it reminds me of homosexuality, it has the tension and the need of the body, as he grabs her and she rubs against him.

Kayleen bites, big large square teeth, hey, brackets, she nuzzles them.

Blood, blood, blood trails down his neck, further, further as she sucks it. He stands there dumbly.

Lora, I love you. Wouldn’t that be his dying phrase? Upon his grave which he'd win in a lottery under a coke machine, as he hides from the rats, which sink their teeth inside each other, making fake noises, squeaking a lost squeak.

She fucked, killed you and nothing, I love you.

How sick, how twisted is that?

Tear the brackets.

Let me fall asleep, as you'd finger me to a lullaby, which I'd sing to some deserted orgasm.

Melvin watches them out of the corner of his eyes, as his hands are glued to the pockets of his purple hoodie, as my eyes sew them with a leather window.

Let me sleep.

I want to sleep to make myself know nothing with the fear I've drawn on my teeth with floss in kinder garden back when I'd get excited from cheese pizza.

You're eternity.

Keep me awake.

Do you love her too, Melvin? I tilt my head to the side, wanting to gossip, wanting to see his soul get shred. He’s dating Jill, but he wants Lora or Frankie? Lora, Lora, Lora, I watch him devour her with his eyes. He takes out a pack of Marlboro’s as she walks away. He gestures to the box, whispering with licks of his tongue, eyes closed, everything is an erotica theatre, as he pokes his rival, Mr. square jaw. Square shakes his head, as Mr. hoodie takes out a cig. It’s dyed purple.

That is so punk rock.

Or glam rock.

Or whatever.

My ego’s the one who’s interested in that. He wants it, he wants to die, as if he were a book cover eaten by Kindle. I’m interested too, but I can’t be bothered and I have no life to live, so that's why I want it. Carrots. I watch him hungrily, needing to feel the icky, sick, bitter taste. It’s unevenly coloured, sticks, like Melvin’s shaking fingers, as if he were holding matches and not a slick green lighter which tickles the hair in his big crooked nose, which could be a crows if you dropped a bucket of black paint before stripping his skin off, the bones now a bird's. I open my mouth to ask.

I don’t want to, my ego does.

What else does he do?

He stares at the body with the growing feather from the neck, as it slashes his throat and gives out a croak as the crow cuts the young body to leave the shelf.

Drugs?

Jump on a pogo stick?

Poke yourself to death, sweetie, rip your death apart, an act of oral sex performed on a female.

Talk to soap?

It will fuck you back in turns with a toothpick, the flesh it gets.

Eat soap?


Choke.
Torture soap?

BDSM. Whipped cream on a iron lung.

I shake my head, feeling a ring in my ears. Bell-bell? Yes-yes. Melvin nods as I pass it mouth to mouth, as Frankie walks faster. Melvin doesn’t bother as he blows smoke rings. I want to poke them, I want to tear them apart, Love Will Tear Us Apart, make me scream I want to wave my arms throwing the smoke away, as it lures inside a circle of the ashtray. He asks me if I’m sure that I don’t need a fast-track two way ticket to lung cancer. I say no-no and shake my head twice, slowly with every stretched sarcastic nooo-nooo, making a five. Two and two ist five.

I hate my head, as I can’t think properly. I think-think too much and nothing-nooothing.

Melvin and Jill argue and argue all day long. Is it because of Lora? Is it because of Frankie? Is it because of me? Is it because of the typing machine? Is it because of the silence they hold on a chain, as if it were a balloon to flow?

Does Jill have an arranged marriage? Marriage. Big posh white dress, the innocent one shall take with a red stain, a small baby to kill, fuck the baby's skull, make him inside your head.

What does black then symbolize? Hello, innocence I shall fuck, I lick lick lick, I am a black hole. I like that too. Champagne? Strawberry with a straw up your own ass?

She’d throw her bouquet in the air, then she’d gossip an hour with the next future wife as she’ll marry her grim reaper to choke with a knife. She’d, she’d, she’d… be gorgeous. Blonde, scarlet. Lola, Kayleen. We can’t have both. Agreed, screw Lola. Screw you. We can't marry a mirror, which we'd break as we'd fuck, even if we stick our cock inside.

Get out of my head.

Get out of my head.

I have nothing to offer if you stay or leave. Choose wisely.

Bang mock mock.

I feel drunk, even if I never was drunk.

I imagine what I feel, I draw it on paper and sell it as love for one quid.

It’s like when people yell out ‘I’m dying!’, but have they died before? No.

An emotional lie in a pyramid. Hah. Dork.

I wonder how’s it’s like to die and then get so-called cured from a clinical death. A xylophone. It's the word death. I bet it’s like now, amnesia, hey, wanna fuck, I don't know you, you'll feel tight, a fucking virgin to my sense of humor, I'm your third innocence, so give it to me, baby, you lose control, you bend, you just see black, flash, you're a homosexual, I shall never admit my wantage to girls, (wantage wanting a word he had slipped into my pants after I came from just showing myself and a quick stroke of the tip, holding the hole between my index and the air) you forget about your existence and then, then you get your body back in a box, a prostitute, a bow, bite bite bite, whip.

Is a clinical death like a change of personalities? Only a dead one taking over, choking, killing the cells with a hammer on a cock? I think of cocks, as Jack White sings faintly, an echo of the fact that I want him too. I press my chin against the table as Melvin nervously keeps flicking the lighter as I stare at the flame. Burn the house down, it's a big wooden house with plates on the floor which we row our butts in, I'll stick my burnt finger up myself so that my bellybutton would crumble.

Will you love me?

Eat the sign!

I kissed voila first.

Feel the disco ball hit my head, twirl, Kayleen, twirl, I like you.

I love you.

I didn't question myself, I just watched Melvin smoke, be a machine.

They were all purple, a cat purple, as if it's just been bought, my hand trembling as I dunk it to be blue and sink with the bubbles of regret.

I wondered if the purple marker was some sort of modern way of turning regular Marlboros to drugs, but then shrug it off.

“Weird. What would you do if you saw your ex-girlfriend, no matter with whom, Rome?” He inhales slowly, as if he wants to make the nicotine hit his brain heavier. Did he have puffy eyes? Was this an alive example how cigarettes corrupt the soul by giving it cancer? Gold. Buy. “Fuck it, with who. She still loks as brilliant, just as freaking brilliant and she’s just there, there and then she says ‘how are you?’ She has got to be kidding.”

The banality of humanity irrapitates me, you'd be fucked, but then you are, Melvin only you grew by watering yourself.

He did a hand gesture, as he did it with the lighten cig and lighter. Melvin shook his chestnut hair out of his eyes, inhaling deeper than before until a cough came from his lips.

“What would you do, Rome?”

What would I do?

Fuck?

I shrugged, realizing that I might be back, he didn’t expect an answer from me as he continued with our dialog, not asking any participation from my side, so I waved the red flag and fell not knowing which words to chew with the teeth I've been taken from.

Until I'd be sixty with thoughts, sneakers, fools, word flood.

-

The rest of the chapters will be posted soon and before April.

Any ideas what might happen?

The poll is still up.

Chapter 34

Tongue

I want to slit my wrists with charcoal
Up to the elbows
So that the pain would flood
The colour in the mouth
A cross to break
With the chunks of chopstick teeth
Take them both
As I'd gain belief
To stroke
In myself
To choke upon the door knob
To fall
With the taste of fear
As I'd be sunken in plastic
Make yellow out of me
I used to watch that
When someone would jump
And I'd scream
Upon the sundae
With death licking the spoon
Which is shoved sideways into my mouth
The ice cream on my cheek
With a bony finger
Slitting itself
The sky shall break in blue
The fingertips hung
A guillotine
Among the paint
With the scribbled night
The yellow stars
Which should've been the first
With no point to erase
Or gums to break
Under a pink pen

---

First of all, I'm sorry for not being able to post a new chapter of Roman's struggles this week. I've been quite ill and still am, at least my coughing describes everything. So I've been focusing on my heath, writing in breaks, I've been working on a massive poem whenever I had the energy and keeping my health up.

Papercut shall be posted entirely before April, sorry for the week's wait.

The poem above was edited slightly before posted, as in the line with the stars as the current night seems to lack some, besides the ones plastered on my window.

The name came from me mishearing a word as I was thinking of the title and hearing the word 'tongue' instead.

Teeth

Dye

A quick blow and the paint stays still
Silent like the new day
Which never seems to come
hanging above on an upside down staircase
I keep touching and painting
the colour all over me
no arms around my own
the nails forming
the colour choking
but different
now they're not my own
but somebody else's,
painting all over again
until the sky is gone
and I throw it away
such an insignificant thing
it finally breaks
the sin on the sand.
It will be picked up some day
by someone tall
someone waiting
someone willing
when the sand shall no longer glow
the fingers never crossed for tomorrow
the feelings bursting inside
unlike the numbness which ends.

---

I wanted to edit it at first, but then I'd lose the summer feel and all the editting I once did.

Something softer than my usual.

(2014): It's funny, it's been ages and I never really told a snippet of the backstory. It was before me and Callie were dating and I was actually confused because I liked Callie and someone else and this is years before I'd come to terms with my polyamory. I had the image of the said other person on the upside down staircase and that was one of the images which still stand out to me now. And he's the one described here, I even forgot that there are poems which mention him, funny, because it was a very odd crush and yeah.

Tongue

Papercut. Chapter 32

Then I see the bus.

I don’t get surprised as the first thing I do is press my head against the window, letting the tingle come from my arm, travel up, as I want to lick it to get the cold as a flavor upon the tongue to wrap around.

Hey, baby, it's a ring.

Why had I said that?

Who was pulling my tongue?

The only person I cheated on was Lola. Thousands, hundreds, billions of times. But then I never dated Lola. We'd talk a bit, as I'd irritate her with the smoke, as she'd hold me by the wrist, saying that she wanted Roman, she wanted to catch him if the change would be rough.

Macy disliked Roman, telling that he reminded her of a brother. I asked whose and she never said everything, a pearl rolling upon her tongue to be given by the brother himself.

The tingle releases its grip, letting the cold feeling take over my body, grabbing it stroking me with a shiver. I raise my head to stare at the written in chalk backs, I want to use needles to write melancholy over my memories of a bunch of bastards, afraid that I might see her again. I don’t want to.

I do.

I’m so alike, I resemble kid. But then it’s natural, isn’t it? I'm still his cells and his body now my vessel as I stand in front of a mirror, hugging myself and pressing against the shadow's reflection.

He is mine to play with as I am his, as I travel on top, hold my teeth tight, lean in and he's gone with the made out of brain juice sushi.

There is the desire to sleep with the self.

The body.

Gold.

Where should the second body be? What had I done?

It was as if nature got greedy and gave us one body instead of one. Or maybe we were supposed to twins? Would we touch each other then under the covers, homosexuality and incest achieved.

It is.

But then as greedy as the human nature is built with my own fear, I can only build lego pain, I want more.

And in this case I want Kayleen, I want no fucking Lola, no fucking Alice, no fucking previous girlfriends. It's the concept and the story behind and there is something among the knives. I search my bag for my iPod, soon enough frowning at Roman’s taste in music. It all seems so… banal to the bones. I flick more, praying that he didn’t delete several songs I managed to upload while I was on the ‘outside’. He didn’t delete them.

I felt a blonde steak fall on my eyes, covering my sight a bit. He needed a haircut.

I needed a haircut.

And no blonde.

Dark chestnut?

Even Thom Yorke got bored of blonde, I think. Let's pray, Maybe he just decided and dyed it back to the brown he has currently, to cover age and the death which is lying above us, grinning a thirty four smile among the given hours, ringing a bell, once we are born and alive. They eat unborn babies with blood and the woman, the mother herself. Sadly, I never was informed and he wasn’t standing next to me saying something among the lines: 'Say, Normie, I think I’ll dye my hair back.’

Right.

Now I felt like some freaking fan girl praying to get a phone call of her beloved celebrity or to kick the classroom door and walk in saying that he was taking her away from the hellhole or whatever to a nice romantic date led to a fancy wedding, front pages on the yellow pages, jealous fans and the sugar coated happily after. But kids, remember the teachers, the keepers of school, are the monsters under the fucking bed, they pull your covers and they are the ones who spank people with rulers in BDSM porn movies.

Happily ever after.

Sounds too depressing, when you have no idea what the fuck that is.

Is that another grape in the afterlife of death?

So unexciting, but I’d lie, declining.

Because I want it.

Or did he have orange afterwards?

I close my eyes scanning his hairstyles in the videos. In the end I come up to the conclusion to re-watch it, just for my curiosity when I’d get back. But didn’t he have this orange shade in “Just”? Yeah, he had.

Nice, nice, Norman, out of all the limited time you get to party on the outside you sit thinking about some vocalist’s hairstyle.

I’m sure kid’s behind this with a purple poster upon his beautiful face, as I tear the poster lean in and slide my tongue inside, my hand going over his short stroking his shoulder, as our tongues rub and then he presses our bodies.

Kayleen.

She takes over, taking her hair away as she rubs against me, sliding the t-shirt off, I am Roman, I'm blonde, come and watch me bleed.

Screw it.

I don’t want him to return.

I don’t want him to run around searching for Lola. I don’t want him to fuck everything up with Kayleen when it already is. I want him. I want Roman on top, I want to be protected by the person who gave me the thoughts and self-pleasure.

I’m sure she won’t talk to me today, answering shortly as possible to any question, clearly hinting for me to fuck off. I heard the sounds of the next song, having her in my mind, as I flicked through my memories, hitting replay every time, as I tortured myself due to my big mouth. But then I always was like this, fucking everything up, because I was born, I was made to fuck Roman’s life so technically I am qualified and rather able to fuck my own, easily.

If I can fuck up somebody else’s life that easy without any bad intention in my head, I am able to fuck my own without even breathing.

I could just tell her the truth, but then what exactly is the truth when it's a bloody relationship with a broken mirror, a mirror Roman had traced, his fingers sliding so that the blood stroked his ego, he had tasted it, the tip of the finger and then he looked at the floor. It should hold the colour, so he took a shard and slid it from his shoulder up to his arm, the whole left arm and he peeled the skin off, slowly, watching the pool of blood fill up the floor, but it was not big enough to drown.

Why had he done that?

No one can say what makes us do it.

I remember how it felt, a felt a screech inside as he fell down, looking at the left reflection, the blood all over, the pale colour, as I had been standing behind, my reflection never held, as I licked his neck, took his hand, stuck my right fingers inside, I was older and I pinned him against the wall, as his hands travelled all over my body, the blood loss.

Macy had asked my name. 'My name is Norman, because it rhymes with Roman.’

Norman-Roman?

I knew that it rhymed. I needed something, he needed to give me something, so he gave me it as I was born, as I had held him close, taking his pain and thought away in the cigarette smoke I had been once offered, by the girl herself. She got hay once, telling me to look at it, as she held it upon our fingers and I had just said the name Roman.

The same characters, the same roles.

My ex laughed, saying that I rely too much on him and that one day no matter how faithful I am he will gobble me, swallow me, eat me and leave nothing but a psychological record in his book.

Even if his status is labeled ‘for life’, so is an arm, but you chop it off with the thoughts you choke on.

Exciting isn’t it?

Sweating, shaking, having a mental breakdown.

White.

White.

White.

It's an escape to the fast erase, as the keyboard breaks down and vomits upon your jeans.

Everything is white like the man's beard as he reads the verdict, the life sentence, not looking upset, he gets it, he gets it a lot and changes it all for a few watches to cling the teeth against to break and spend, a motivation because time is eaten by those who polish it with white blood mentally with the tongue never touching the outside.

Neither of us remember the following, besides me watching fires of bright colours and injured badly arm.

“Roman, I’m sorry but you have a split-personality. I’m sorry there’s nothing that I can do.”

But then what could I do now? Where currently now I could go? Where could I find dark brown hair dye in this bus? Where in the name of whatever pops in my mind I could do something radical now? The only thing which appeared in my head was finding who knows where a gun, shooting into the roof, jumping on the seat. Brushing the blonde steaks out of my face aiming it at either sides in slow motion, as I watched each passenger who looked in the need of a time out a rather long one.

But what would that give me?

Blood.

I loved it but I despite its sick taste, as it once filled my mouth, when I had kissed the blood away, I spat it out, seeing it mix with my own spit, giving it less intense colour. It was a nice dark red, despite its wound. I could stare at the person bleed, pray, beg for help as I’d heal its wounds, feeling the warm feeling dry on my fingertips. I was never disgusted by it.

I never ever feared it.

I heard him yelp out, his voice muffled by his constant shaking as he stared fear reflected in his eyes as something was going on inside him, as if someone was ripping his soul out, a mad splitting pain dividing his head into two, screams, shouts, shakes and then everything went blurry for him, as I slid my tongue, he was shaking, screaming, the skin under his feet.

Fear was taking over him, as I showed up. I pressed my palm against the wound, kneeling my head to taste the red liquid.

Horrid.

It was horrible unlike the beauty it showed. I raised my brow as I pressed a soaked in blood fingertip against his cheek, trailing it down, down his lips as I saw a trail already and a small hazel sparkle, as he opened his mouth as wide, greeting myself inside, as he massaged my shoulders, avoiding any possibility of him finding out the gagging taste.

Wide olive eyes.

Torn lips.

“Who are you? Why is everything white?”

Roman, Roman, can you hear me?

Son, Roman, Roman?

Answer me!

Relax, you’re son is having a shock.

How can I fucking relax?!

Watch your mouth.

“You’re inside our mind.”

“Our?”

I nodded, rubbing more blood onto his face, he started, never finished as I slid down, stretching all the fabrics, the flesh, the new oil, grinning at my new friend. I was lonely, all I could do is watch his steps, count up to ten and drop it, eyes covered by a curtain of thoughts, like a movie yet with no popcorn included. Nothing. I couldn’t speak, I had no voice, all I did was cuddle my legs against my chest, get my hair cut the same time he would. I’d have identical clothes by default but I could change them. I wasn’t allowed to leave.

Until that one day.

“It’s beautiful. Blood.” I grinned staring at my fingertips, drenching my fingers in his wound ignoring the pain I was causing to him. “Want this to end, Roman?”

Pale. He’s so pale. White. Fucking white. He should be bloody red. More blood.

My own,

I took his knife,

I am a lefty, he is a righty, I stuck the knife until it scratched my bone, I felt nothing and slid it down, splitting it open, removing the flesh, the bone exposed, muscles torn and fragments falling off. I took a muscle, a sponge, soaked it in our pool and painted his lips. My fingers in the palette as I slid them inside his mouth, my bone pulsing, as I slid inside his tongue.

I pressed both my hands into the wound rubbing my palms against his face, arms, legs, knees, elbows, everything. I wanted him to be red, but once it dried I’d use more.

Yet he nods.

I close his eyelids, as if he’s about to die in my arms, as I'd rub him back to death to say hello.

Maybe he is.

Maybe he is even dead now.

Then I’m the one who opened the eyes, I’m the one who looked at the world through olive eyes, tubes stuck into my body, giving me more… blood. I stared at it running through tubes, as I ignore the woman choking my throat.

Roman’s mother, his father and sister cry. They cry so much. Salty-salty disgusting, horrible water, tears which rub against my dry cheeks. Where's the feeling of eternal bliss plastered upon my face?

“That’s blood! That’s freaking blood!” I let out, as I pressed my nose against the tubes. As death lingering upon, stroking people's pearls, before they die.

I lived in him, like his mother would say like a parasite, eating Roman.

I had to use pills, fake crap to revive him, chucked down my throat as a death would be announced every second only not my own.

“Stop! I’m not…” Then I felt it for the first time, a cold chill run through my hand. Right, there was nothing, it was pure, flesh and blood unlike the second wrapped in plastic bandages. I grabbed it, as if knowing what it meant, rubbed it, shouting for it to stop, as it took control over me, making everything… white.

Blind my eyes with the flash.

I was back, the white walls. They were killing me, surrounding me.

I’m afraid that it is impossible to get rid of.

Take that. I’m here forever.

“Forever.” I hiss pressing my fingers against the scar praying for the wound to open with my bare hands. Maybe I could kill him by making him bleed to death? But then I’d kill myself too and that was unacceptable, so I stroked the scar on my left arm, thanking its existence. If it wasn’t for it, who knows when I’d have emerged, as I knew that then I'd go to have the bone grow flesh in a few minutes, the illusions wear off.

And if I even would have.

Because I of all people believe in fate. If I wouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have been born or created or existed. Put it any way you want, actually. Because, I think, I am a creation of fate. I was meant to be.

DO YOU HEAR IT?!

I WAS MEANT TO BE!

I WAS MEANT TO COME AND SCREW UP YOUR ALREADY FUCKED UP LIFE!

I WAS MEANT…

He shifts in his sleep, his eyes opening, his eyes blank, like a zombie's, as he cries out in an awake state, both hands cut out and the back of the neck slightly, as if he is lacking blood, like back on that day. The blood does not leak out, just that the bones need to breathe. Olive looks at his covered by his sleeve right arm, as he raises the sleeve. Roman frowns as the scar goes across the whole arm in a rather wobbly way, unlike how its wound was. He presses his fingers against the wound, as I feel dizzy. I want blood to pour out of it but none does.

I want to sleep.

I want to push my eyelids shut, as I beg for her face to haunt me, to stalk me, to torture me by its own significance, like a teasing sick joke, I joke I’d love to death. Literally, as I force feelings onto myself, as if I were a poster on the eaten by moths fur wall, I get banned and red paint thrown on my face by ugly

ugly

humans.

Applause.

Right tingle.

Sleepy sleep.

“G’night, Roman.”

"G'day, Norman."

---

The more I edit the more Papercut has references to Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering, such as pearls if not to spoil a lot.

Chapter 33

She's Suffering

I stand there doing my tie, my eyes looking naked without eyeliner, as I struggle for a brief second, staring at what happened to the black varnish upon my nails. I managed to damage it, revealing my pink nail underneath with a small layer of dirt I quickly get rid off as an act of disgust.

Then I touch my eyes with the black pencil, standing straight holding my breath, trying to relax quoting Kafka in my head to calm myself down.

School just finished and begun welcoming high school into my folded arms, as I sigh remembering my class and accuses of rumors about my sexuality despite myself making out with a person of the opposite sex in front of everybody, a girl.

Was it a gesture of protection or was it because I hadn’t stuck my tongue into somebody’s mouth for quite an amount of time?

Both theories seemed reasonable and could be revived into life in a dialog but not more. Am I correct?

I finished my eyes, pressing my hands into the mirror, watching myself watching me in amusement at how skinny I was, frightened by how I could gain a lot of weight when in reality I gained none, my wrists looked as if they might've just snapped.

I hoped I didn’t reek of the beer I had drunk with my friends before.

It seemed bitter compared to the vodka I tried with my parents on some family occasion with cousins, uncles, grannies praising me, muttering how much had I grown.

I was still the same height.

They told me how handsome I was.

With the scars on my wrists as I fiddled with the paper knife, smoking in my room, wishing for the smoke to fill inside the walls, as I let it out of my mouth.

It was beautiful while reading in a character, the thought of Zooey in his bath, smoking and reading a scenario seemed to attract me, as I thought of his lips dragging the small roll of tobacco as he’d inhale, maybe closing his eyes in ecstasy.

Was it bad that a thought of a male in a bath attracted me or was it the drug between his artistic lips?

I smeared lipstick upon my lips, my mouth held open as I did so, my eyes watching my lips.

Did I want to fuck a reflection of myself?

Somebody with a different hair cut, eye tint, puffier lips, broad shoulders and a strong tongue.

Who did I want?

But then did I want somebody to curl beside me upon my bed, breathing into my neck, the first thing I’d see instead of Ian Curtis with his closed eyes and would the person disturb my routine of listening to Transmission, mouthing the words because I’d have no guts to sing aloud in case somebody would catch me and hear my accent instead of Ian’s deep godlike voice?

I should grasp my sexuality.

The words were like thunder but I shook them away with my hands, muttering more Kafka quotes, Joy Division singing in my head with Morrissey stomping on it with some song I had heard earlier that night, after midnight, browsing different stuff and finding a fucking load of The Smiths references.

I hated how half the existing animals knew nothing than some dumb pop stars in mini-skirts trying to become Madonna.

But then everybody else wanted to be Morrissey.

Or Stipe, if they are gay or don’t know about his sexuality.

But then I took it and rubbed it off.

The make-up.

I didn’t because I was hetero.

I didn’t leave it because I was gay.

And I wasn’t bisexual.

Neither was I asexual.

Just the thought of having a laughing Britney scared me and so did a 50 year old Stipe as I’d be his photographer and the thought of a lonely asexual saddened me.

What about self pleasuring then?

What did that make us?

What sexuality did it give us?

Or was it a small way to death, laying there, coated in blood staring at the reflection of Narcissus laughing, holding hands with himself then melting into a kiss with its other.
What love was, desire to find another Narcissus there out there.

Because we’re cowards to fuck ourselves all our lives. We need somebody else to do it.
And the fucking hole is waiting to swallow me as it demands somebody to whom I can lie looking into the eyes, as I’d fall for anyone now because I’m desperate the faintest hints of somebody declaring to have read Murakami in the past makes me shiver impatiently as I start the conversation slowly, feeling attraction because the person knows who the fuck Murakami is and actually saw a glimpse of some of the few thrillers I might’ve seen sometime out of boredom, even if they never caught my eye.

I wanted to shave my head.

I wanted to take the razor and watch it fucking fall.

I hated how it intertwined with my fingers how people who love me thread their hands in the same hateful, horrid, sinful hair which grows out of the corrupted inside which has its eyes closed, screaming at the horror

the horror

of whom I fall in love with.

Would I be a lonely asexual, ceased to never feel attraction?

How can a person who never felt it long for it?

Easy.

Media.

They plant the longing so that we’d watch movies, read books, listen to music from people who believed that they had had that high feeling which seems sometimes as unlikely as religion.

I throw my head back, my mouth opened trying to get the music out of my body, the one playing in my head, my soul flowing from my blood as sounds come and go mixing with quotes, as I find my fingers trying to grasp guitar strings rather than pencil.

I want a guitar.

I heard that being onstage is better than any fucking orgasm from a girl to whom you’ll wake up stare at her, realize that you’re still the nervous teenager that it is afraid that something radical might happen after sex or on the contrary you’ll feel so fucking macho that it shall be printed upon the face and all girls shall be mine, I’ll be considered a sex God, have thirty girls a day.

A modern day Casanova.

I’d tell her it was just sex.

Just like prostitution.

She offered her body, I took it.

There is no illusion followed afterwards, I’d feel nothing.

I’d kick her out, as my thoughts would circle in my head, I’d be there heavily breathing naked against the door, her possibly clutching her clothes, staring at me through the door I’d feel her eyes burning the wood down.

Would the faceless girl yell?

Would she break the door down and rape me?

Or would she just leave calling me a fucker and leave me the fuck alone apart from rumors spreading from mouth to mouth as passionately as a French kiss, tongues rubbing, noses touching,

eyes opened

I always keep my eyes closed.

Because I don’t want to see.

To see the face I kiss without emotion, following the heat in my body, wondering how much she’d offer and the adrenaline as I’ll kick her out.

I try to work it out in my head, but nothing really sums up.

I end up going up and down the stairs and exit without a crumble of breakfast in my mouth. I don’t feel like it. I don’t want to end up wearing bigger clothes, I don’t care.
I can live without breakfast, people starved and nothing.

Yeah, well, they died, but that just doesn’t mean that I won’t stop and aside from my desire I’ve got no more reason, I’m not protesting with my body, because there are no reasons to protest for and above all, my life matters absolutely nothing to whoever I might challenge.

Who am I?

A troubled teenager.

I am a teenager, the burden of the society, because I have hormones, I want to fuck, I swear, I drink, I can have schizophrenia, I should be stuck in the bars of school until the devil shall escape from my mouth, licking the twelve year olds, slowly savoring until he’ll go into their own mouth, sew another tongue because once I reach thirteen I change
Who the fuck is that?

That’s an age.

He’s a teenager.

It’s as if I’m a serial killer, I’ll grow out of it.

Or not.

Maybe I’ll go on and disgrace my family, with my own presence with my music taste, with how I touch my girl, with how I cheat, with how I smoke.

I have all rights to hate somebody who hates me.

Of course I remain passive with the whole ‘the other cheek’ thing, but that doesn’t mean that my anger manages to take over, destroying everything proving that the fucking myth of the insane teenager is true.

I feel fury, because the society grows it within me with rough stares and mouths wishing to mouth how could their lives be quieter without music which has no taste, without our screeches, without countless abortions, broken fucking lives to girls and boys which shall one day grow into self-haters.

It’s all self-obsession, obsession that you've grown fucking old.

That you fucking die and because those who judged you are alive, rotting demanding closure, respect but from what?

Why should I respect those for whom I was a dreadful piece of mud?

By the time I’ll reach their age, they’ll be dead and I’ll be clicking my tongue, blaming them for the fact that I’m dying and I’ll be releasing the pain, the hatred which was once planted inside me, passing from generation to generation until teenagers will die, there shall be no abortion, it’ll be normal to die at thirteen and have six sons at six.

Then we’ll hate children.

We’ll eat them.

Because we’ll stay alive anyway.

Because we like parasites, die last, when the cow shall be bloodless, the mosquito praying for another until he’ll fall into her mouth as a sign of defeat. The cow may have died, but only to defeat the killer, sacrificing herself so that the next generation shall be saved even if there shall be none.

But the eyes will be held open if she is wise, to hold the horror in her grasp,
the eyes will be closed if she regrets her life, afraid to grasp the beauty of destruction.
I never prayed for the apocalypse.

Never ever.

I wanted to see chunks fly, but I’d be crying, curling into a ball, praying for all to die besides myself.

But I head out to a bigger pain, high school, which seems horrifyingly big as the remaining years remind of themselves of non-understanding teachers and heaps of useless work because like with a family member you can’t argue with them.

But then there are mood swings, I’ll be happy once more around the corner.

And that’s the good thing.

Like the mood swing when I wanted to look like Sid Vicious.

I heard grown-ups labeling it something like interested in music of the past, one which was over twenty years or more. I remember I was fourteen or so I stood in front of the dumb mirror trying to make my hair spiky and clearly failing, as it would fall in a few seconds.

I actually managed to achieve that, but as soon as I did, I got bored.

I wondered if my parents attempted to look like Sid Vicious, but then Sid died and got forgotten. So would that mean both of them trying to copy Morrison or Jaeger, because he was earlier? I drop my hair the way it is, slightly messy, but the attempt to actually do something with it or against the ‘I jumped out of my bed look’, but then maybe I should’ve kept it?

I can’t help but stare, chewing on my bottom lip, but then I drop it.

I keep walking until I wait at the bus stop looking up reminding myself of people who believe that nothing can actually be there, but if it is never ending maybe there is a bleak imitation, so that the religious can be happy?

Or if heaven is on earth, maybe we feel it, as bliss, as love which we can never achieve or hate shall be hell then? The sinful desire to tear somebody apart? Or to kiss somebody until we both steal each other’s breaths, holding the hands never ending the touch until the sinful thought comes and we’re back here at the bus stop thinking of banal things.

Banal, because all of us want that.

So then you meet school after all bus or not no matter if you missed it or not, was it a pure coincidence or fate to bump into some cheesy pre-school novel about me battling a dragon and as I am no Ogre, I get no awesome Fiona and critical acclaim apart from small hands clapping which shall send shivers upon my spine.

-

I throw water upon my face and I’ve got no make-up to actually worry about. So I just wash my sweat off, gasping in a greedy matter trying to get as much air as possible and at the precise moment when my eyes catch my reflection describing high school horror, the lack of girlfriends due to their maturity and the desire to get attention I get a cig shoved in my face.

I turn my head to meet not the reflection of the tall red haired guy, but the one standing in front, one cig lit hanging between his lips. He inhales slowly and I give a guess that he’s not faking it, as I grab the other and I inhale. I give a light cough, as the bitter taste fills my mouth and with my eyes closed I inhale deeper and deeper each time, that everything seems so foggy and easy going that I don’t bother.

I catch his grin on his face, which is half a head higher than my own.

“What?” I’m surprised that I didn’t ask ‘fuck what’, but I brush it off and he notices my accent and smirks. Fuck him. I look at him closer at his bright eyes clashing against his dyed candy apple red, but it seems lightly faded and his roots are beginning to show if I’d stare long enough, before he actually becomes pacing back and forth.

“No, nothing.” He throws the fag into a toilet, which scribbled door is held open. I manage to catch a faint glimpse of the carved idols and fake beauties which apparently guys masturbate to, but my eyes catches how close he suddenly is. Then he presses me against the mirrors until I feel the wall dig into my back and my eyes are closed, a foreign mouth and body pressed against my own. It feels weird, as I realize what else can be digging into my body, but I held myself there until I feel several fingers yank the cig from my lips.

“Oi, you ‘right?” He asks, his blue eyes looking at me with concern. “First fag?”

I nod, trying to rub the effect of my eyes and swallowing just as much. I keep repeating yeah three times in a row, until it fades out in his smile. I stare at him, as lit himself another one, leaning against a closed door. He watches into the distance, we’re skipping some lesson, not disturbing each other’s privacy, everything polite and following skipping lessons etiquette.

Then the door opens or rather tries to and the red head takes a step forward, only to turn and breath smoke into the guy who walked out looking rather blue. He shoves him against the door, for a laugh and lets him go, inhaling as the younger boy gets out, not washing his hands or anything, borrowing the scent of smoke.

“Nick…y.” He says all of a sudden, realizing that I was watching and he drops the fag, looking a bit in regret, so he takes the remains of my own, inhaling and jerking his head to breath out the smoke somewhere else than my face. Then I realize that it is my cue.

“Richard.” I realize how formal that may be and that maybe neither can be our names or the fact that we might not even be in high school two teachers before a job interview, battling for the same place. But then I shrug it off, looking at him for a while before we exchange class information, describe the carved doors and leave the room one after another.

I find myself thinking about his bright eyes for a brief second before the teacher slams his knuckle into my desk as my head rises momentary showing a brief description of fear. The teacher’s eyes show the opposite, victory, as he captures the fear I cannot grasp.

Fear for what, that he shall call my parents?

What exactly I’m I afraid of?

It’s not like those eyes can bore into me, tearing me as teeth in two and taking out my thoughts to throw them upon the table or stick to the blackboard holding it with both hands, repeating the lesson’s topic as my body shall rot in his hands and once it shall, his hands will fall onto his sides, his back still turned, eyes closed, mouth opened in ecstasy, as the once named fear shall leak from his pores onto the students in a suggestive matter, to sacrifice themselves

to knowledge.

and get eaten by those who don’t.

I tell him I love him, I realize I’m asleep with a warm pillow.

I spill my milk, the warm milk I had been sleeping with until I realized that I am in a lesson, staring at my teacher’s eyes.

I see Nick standing near the door, tapping with his long fingers, his blue eyes catch mine, he winks.

It’s not addressed to the teacher, he strides throughout the classroom, his legs covered in his white levi's and I realize how sleepy I am and how scared I am that I feel him running a hand through my hair as I press my nose into his hair, a familiar scent lurking in my nose as I kiss his dyed hair.

The teacher sees our love and blinks.

I get excused as my head falls and I realize how sleepy I may be.

I have one eye open for the lessons until lunch grasps the school with its square sized pizzas and diet coke. I quote Kafka in my head, as the red head stops by, the knees of his levi's now covered in gray lightly, but he grins even more.

Nick sits beside me without a word, I fiddle with my fingers, touching my coke from while to while until he shoves my pizza slice into my mouth. I nearly choke and he tells me to chew, barely holding a burst of laughter, as he ruffles my head as my mouth is full.
He asks me about The Pixies.

I tell him I like Where Is My Mind and that’s it.

He tells me to listen to them.

I say I do.

Huh? Is written across his confused round face.

It’s a Placebo song.

“Don’t you love it when the world sparkles?”

He laughs.

“Sure I do.” He fiddles with the straw, his head hanging low that the red steaks cover his round-oval face. I give a long look at Nicky that he raises his head and the light blues eyes bore into mine with pure confusion, before he actually forms the last syllables of my name I realize the reason behind my déjà-vu.

“Weren’t you blonde?”

He nods, as he drinks out of his diet coke, the red covering the blue. I close my eyes trying to imagine how he looks with blonde hair and he seems more familiar, as I look at him eating. We remain in silence, as I hum some tune, most likely from The Smiths, as Nicky watches me back.

It feels at ease, as I feel an urge to dive into a bathtub with bubbles to emerge and be greeted by Nicky blowing smoke into my face, his knees showing from the bubbles as they’d fly around, his blue eyes fixed on my own. Nicky would laugh, our legs never touching, but we’d talk like back when I was four and I’d get washed by my parents describing the tiles surrounded, shampoo leaking into my closed eyes as it would be rubbed softly between my hair.

Would Nicky wash my hair?

I could see him biting his cig in concentration, but instead he just sits there looking lost, the fag nearly done.

Then he’d blow bubbles into my face, his eyes as blue as the tint in the bubbles.

Would he lean towards me?

Would he make a move?

I didn’t touch my food, refusing to answer Nick’s questions as he’d drain his coke, looking at my famished body and how I showed it by the clothes once baggy now fitting my body like a second skin showing an intimate closure to the edge of anorexia, but I didn’t bother.

It wasn’t like he’d wrap a towel around me, watching the cuts across my chest and over my heart heal as I’d bite my nails as two towels would divide us in a suggestive manner.
“Your eyes are the colour of autumn.

The shape, the intense coldness lying behind, trying to give a hint of the aftermath as the leaves cover the ground with a faint touch, the honey lying forbidden, the bees long forgotten

And the ice emerging.” He whispered into my ear, taking steaks from my ear so that his voice could stroke my earlobe and Nicky leaned back.

“Richey…”

He’d lean.

“Richey!” He looked at me with fear dancing in my eyes as I blinked the daydream out of my eyes. Was I looking at him as if he was a piece of meat waiting for my teeth to bite the chunk until I’d hit the bone and break a tooth?

He’d feed me peeled apples, the skin falling down, resembling a humans as he’d stroke my hair away as I’d wonder how come it grew as long.

The teeth upon the neck, a luring kiss to tease and heal as the pain would build leaving nothing but pale skin there.

How would the first kiss be?

I ask that as Nick’s eyes follow a girl’s skirt as she stretches the bracelets on her hands, as she waits in line, hair falling up to her waist, the front bangs held up by a matching orange headbang clashing with her hair faking the neat look heavily.

I take my pizza and put it down as he grins, his light eyes looking down and he smiles at me, as if saying ‘hey, I like this girl’.

‘Hey, I like that guy’.

I hate endings and I wonder if he’d be the one with the bouquet or I’ll be the one banging the door done, tears upon my eyes, regret or even despise? Will we yell, clutch each other as an attempt to start everything.

Shall it be a girl or a guy?

Will that person have a braid or everything horrifyingly loose, as if it could sweep the floor with the shredded memories mixed with tears and salty dust, which can be taken as a gum and chewed if you feel fucking nostalgic.

“Teddy.”

I raise my eyes to the red haired teenager who is fiddling with nothing at all, the smile sparkling upon his face but there are no fireworks and I realize that it is addressed towards me, I take a handful of my hair, raising my eyebrows.

“Is it because my hair is brown?” He shakes his head, his light blue eyes never leaving my hazel and I drop my hand, feeling the weight upon my leg as if it’s not my own and Nick has made a move on me with his eyes closed and lips ready.

“No, you just look really cuddly.” He grins madly, his face protected by his hands and the blush across my own pale cheeks.

“Oh.” I say. “I am, cuddly, I mean.” So he cuddles me.

---

This was supposed to be a long story, but I love how it ends, but maybe I'll finnish it later or it'll be stuck with Richey's tension and Nick's whatever he is feeling, noooot spoiling.

I am a fangirl.

This was written on the height of my Richey Edwards addiction, explaining the names, the title (the song has no connection, just the word combination rather if to be fairly honest and dare I say, sarcasm).

I've been posting poems lately and no short stories, while I browsing and thinking of aother I stumbled on this (all wednesday stories/poems are chosen from the written folders or boxes if such exist and there is no me sitting, chewing my pinkie as I figure out what to write for wednesday).

I've been working on short stories, poems and a novel lately, which shall be posted in the end. Everything will be posted, it just takes weeks and that's it really.

The poll is still up and so far Exit is winning, which also makes me happy and the main couple in the series would be intersting with their differences and sudden change in one of them.

Escaping reality, it means both, right? Or do you lure one in?

Ah, spoilers, I say I spoil when it's not.

And on that note, I leave you to think.

Thank you.

Hell Hates You

Papercut. Chapter 31

Voices.

Some sick tune destroying my mood, taking out the tongue and pouring syrup on it, as I try to reflect a scene in front with a girl smoking a cigarette and a balcony, like a house of cards with one single move causing the air to shiver and the building to tremble, shatter into a pile, the oxygen is the house and the lips are among the nude houses.

Let's ride a horse. I want to bite it's neck, as confetti will pour out and I'll use ink to cover my bodies.

I press myself into the pillow not finding a known strawberry scent.

How cheap was that?

Always comparing a girl’s scent, taste to berries?

As if you can actually lick the sticker off, a body, just sexual attraction, the cock thanks for me, a myth naively held by betrayed women.

Lola tasted like mint.

I swallow, imagining the taste I was longing for, I want to wrap it up.

Or maybe I wasn’t?

I could hear a door shut with a light bang. I could see her breathing heavily, clutching the fabric of her shirt, as she slips onto the floor, wash it all off, her breath a scream. Kayleen’s light blue eyes are never raised, to catch me peeking, spying, stalking her like a peeping Thomas, but then I wasn't the interested one. Only there was no wooden wall, I'm not digging my nails into the wood trying to catch at least a small glimpse to satisfy my imagination. She raised her palm to her forehead, brushing off her steaks, poking her Converse, as I'd return under the covers, the tears now holding another meaning maybe with both hands tied and no one would care, nor me nor Roman, trying to calm down.

There was something about her, sitting there like a doll, only there were topics to be held, even if I pictured her differently, just that the other self, what about him, one strap falling down, as she lets it brush her shoulder, as her eyes are bursting from confusion. The red head turns her head away, letting her palm press against her mouth muffling her ongoing ranting as if she were the one to speak with the mouth open, the tension and desire plastered, letting herself swallow them, letting them rip her from inside.

What did it feel when you were torn even with a previous affection? I wondered where would I be with the beloved second part of mine, what if your split-personality was your soul mate?

She rubs her face with the same hand, the other resting on her knee, relaxing while the other had the task to relax her.

Is she crying?

She isn't.

I want her to cry in my arms, I want to stroke her, as my hair colour would change from one to another, as I'd hold a few pearls in my hands, maybe her hair would go black, natural, some previous lover.

But then I want her to, not understanding whose idea it was to press the lips against her cheeks, feeling the salty taste, as I'd lick it off, holding her eyes and leaning in to forget how it'd feel.

I could hear a snore, maybe he was asleep or faking it while whispering nonsense into my ear. Maybe he was the culprit here, as I felt my legs take me further, further downstairs to show myself under the dim corridor lamp under several hats triggering paper and sketches to stand on tiptoes and bite, which was the only one lit, giving the room a spooky state most likely to all of the dark curtains pulled shut, eating away the light. She raises her head, her emotions as if she had been crying but no evidence is held or shown.

And the fear of acceptance is on a chain. As the thoughts fiddle and turn, fucking each other, as if it were something else to do.

Kayleen should be there, have something in her name for me to want her, for us to want her up to the point that I'd press her against the wall, biting her lips, my hands raising her t-shirt and not expecting Lola underneath or in the threesome. I'd cheat on them, I'd make them cheat in front.

Kayleen. I want to pronounce her name, as I'd feel a different tingle take over my body, eating me fully. It feels cheesy. It feels not right. I should be in my bed, forcing myself to sleep under the imagination of Lola’s scent. That’s it. I should think about my next move on Alice, but nothing. But then isn’t it what it always starts from? An unknown mix of emotions, adrenaline, the mind completely blank, no exact tune in the head, screaming out phrases urging you to stop it by one single action.

One mere action. One step and one fling. One big flirt.

“Roman? I w-"

I shut her up by pinning myself against her, I feel her excited, there is the reflection of the sexy confusion I feel, in her eyes I feel my breathing go faster as her face in inches from mine, still not blurring out the vision. I could see myself stroking her hair, the red slipping in my fingers, colouring, her hair flowing as her eyelashes and slightly opened lips, pornography, let me takes pictures, let me draw you as I feel my hands going down and it's heated up there as I lean in, brush my lips near her own, pull, feeling her lips mouth silent words as I mouth my own, pray.

Kayleen looks up at me, I feel high and then we just look at eachother, my hand goes upper and when she closes her eyes I go for it, my lips press a pattern against hers before I feel her mouth softness exposed, as I stroke her exposed shoulder. I'm no kid.

I want her.

Sexually.

It's a mere attraction which fades but it's there when it is and I rub her softly, as she presses me harder, surely another person in the mind, as another name is called, as I go lower, the shoulder no longer my interest, her eyes firmly closed and I feel her play with the hem of my own shirt and she traces a line upon my arm and I hiss, feeling it open.

Because this time it’s real.

“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

Those words aren’t mine and maybe just maybe the feelings aren’t mine as well.

But just until now.

Then I lunge myself forward after a quick gaze exchange, she's not there, opening my mouth a bit too fast, sucking her tongue, raising her t-shirt, not letting her take a lazy gasp of air as I feel the victory of hunger. How long?

I don't even look down.

I don't need to.

The other name traces in my head as I remember her lace.

I want to take it all off.

Take my mind off.

Finger it.

As if I cutting it out a few blood men, make me fall in love with Alice.

Make me stop thinking of Lola.

Tranquilize my desire with your body above.

May I pray to it?

As I press my lips against her breast.

Can I bite your nipple off?

Feed me with death and your meat shall be the feast.

Take away the dreams of yourself away from my dark twisted mind, where I shall touch myself to you when you bleed.

Let my hands pulse.

I pull back trying to understand birth in front of me.

She's pale and stupid.

I want her.

So bad.

I know what she wants she pulls me by my shoulders crushing herself against me, hoping to find something that would remind her of him.

Nor does she remind me of Lola.

“Sorry.” She apologizes, gazes meet as the tip of my tongue traces a line on her neck amd she looks disgusted, realizing that maybe we both had gone too far, hello dairy product. Kayleen tries to stand up but I pull her back into my lap, as I erase all the emotion besides sexual attraction in my head, the concept reminds me of homosexuality, pinning her wrists against her knees with one hand the other adjusting on the back of her neck.

I don’t love her.

He does.

I love her.

He doesn’t.

She loves him.

She doesn’t love me.

She loves me.

It’s like a corrupted triangle, but then it will always be, since there’s two of me. I'll always want to fuck myself with a scarf in the legs.

Fuck?

I feel her stroke the back of my head as her fingers travel down and she actually exposes my chest, circles all over as she also goes a bit down, kissing my neck to go back up into my eyes.

Stop it.

She takes my past and kisses it, traces, combs it all over, the holes gone, glue inside.

I open my eyes, watching her emotions as I don’t break the kiss, as she keeps her eyes shut. Is this a bad thing?

Because if this is a sin, kid, it’s a good one.

I continue the kiss, realizing how quick did I change that I add an unsureness in the kiss, a few thoughts lingering, just a few, before I hear Macy stroke the back of my head and grab it to lick my lips, she sees it and then Macy vanishes, haunting, a broken portrait in a mirror with a newspaper, causing her to break it and stare at me for a while.

Enough. Big shift bigshiftbigshiftbigshift.

She stares, she leans, she goes down, up, doesn't go down, she should, mind foggy and hand ache.

“I have a boyfriend, Roman.” She leans back, looking down at her exposed torso and then her eyes go up to my own.

“I have Alice.” I don’t say girlfriend because that’s what she is to me just Alice. Nothing more, a stupid teenage doll playing with her teacher. “She’s a fucking student, thinking that she can hit on me.”

I wink at her, feeling the need for a smoke. I press my forehead against hers and close my eyes, I feel tender.

“It’s nice to cheat, y’know? I mean in some occasions like this one.” I trail my fingers across her jaw, then kissing her jaw line, she'd be next, one to another. She looks up, feeling herself exhale. I wonder if she knows what’s going on.

We should put this on hold, even if I can control over kid and the transformations.

Then we both stand up, as if nothing ever happened. Of course nothing did, I’m still the fucking teacher who is apparently trying to snog his students while she’s a proper girlfriend who is trying to get into psychology from poems. I can’t help but grin at her as I leave, to pin my own self against the wall, the cold reflection my thoughts, as I remove what's left, vanity, it's seeds.

I expect to see the same reaction from her, but instead she bites her lips and turns around focusing her attention on the spoon mixing the tea liquid with sugar. I want to rush up to her, but I don’t do that. All I do is out the door, trying to understand.

I’m I Roman or Norman?

Fuck.

---

This chapter was always horrible to write. The second draft was as difficult as the first and it takes time before I fall in love with it.

It contains spoilers for the Papercut Prequel, doesn't it?

What is a pearl and the hair colour changes?

Exciter helped once more, so thank you, Depeche Mode although it was hard to pick after I finished Exciter, but still.

Once more, thanks, Thom-Thom.

Also Kayleen changed along with her relation to Norman, as he ends up having a closer bond to Macy, as every relation is now new and edited.

Want to understand Papercut fully? Vote on your left for the prequel. 

(2014): Um, there is no voting now, but you can check what was posted of prequel here: Ladder To The Red Moon Gathering

Chapter 32

Blank Devotion 25

Bite my hand
With your little teeth
Chew my bone
Suck it
Lick it up and down
Let everything travel
Eyes sunken
Immersed
Into salt
Which scatters on the shore
Of the dead sky
The stars burning your hair
As I press my lips
The gap under my chest
The word love not enough
Upon the curls
I lost
As the hands are split
Held together
Open
As if it were a mouth to press

Dye