Just a little story that was in my head . .Called "RAVEN"
What a beautiful face she had, reflections of life seared into those placid green eyes, so cold and yet so inviting to the tragedy of her demise. The thought crossed my mind, half expected to see rhymes and writings seep from the wounds I had inflicted on her head, did she deserve such a beautiful death. Her skin, so translucent, cast an aura of light around the outline of her body, an illusion of suspension, over the cold steel table.
The tiny abrasions freckling her forearms formed words in my mind, her story carved to flesh. I just wanted to lay beside her, close my eyes and listen as she whispered in my ear.
She was my type, had she been alive. Her hair as black as the raven's wing, and such soft features, so delicate. I could only imagine her lips, like velvet when blood rushed beneath the surface.
I could not help but feel foul for such thoughts and at the same time, I could not stop them. . . . . . . .
Part 2__
The beautiful face now had a name, Raven. Her long black locks encrusted in blood still seemed to stand out against the luster of the steel. My fingertips danced across the surface of her stomach, only latex separating her skin from mine. I glanced at her feet, soiled with earth as though she had been playing with Mother Nature only moments before. Mud caked over the fresh crimson polish that once showed her attention to detail. I could picture her knee's bent against her body, grasping each toe while steadying every stroke of the brush.
Her legs were smooth, with tiny scores scared to her inner thighs. I gripped my fingers over them, and then spread her legs apart. Like crosshatching on a canvas, the markings drew a picture in my head. A portrait of sadness, uncertainty, hesitation and love. Not love for another, more so of herself, ever careful not to slice to deep. . . . .
What a beautiful face she had, reflections of life seared into those placid green eyes, so cold and yet so inviting to the tragedy of her demise. The thought crossed my mind, half expected to see rhymes and writings seep from the wounds I had inflicted on her head, did she deserve such a beautiful death. Her skin, so translucent, cast an aura of light around the outline of her body, an illusion of suspension, over the cold steel table.
The tiny abrasions freckling her forearms formed words in my mind, her story carved to flesh. I just wanted to lay beside her, close my eyes and listen as she whispered in my ear.
She was my type, had she been alive. Her hair as black as the raven's wing, and such soft features, so delicate. I could only imagine her lips, like velvet when blood rushed beneath the surface.
I could not help but feel foul for such thoughts and at the same time, I could not stop them. . . . . . . .
Part 2__
The beautiful face now had a name, Raven. Her long black locks encrusted in blood still seemed to stand out against the luster of the steel. My fingertips danced across the surface of her stomach, only latex separating her skin from mine. I glanced at her feet, soiled with earth as though she had been playing with Mother Nature only moments before. Mud caked over the fresh crimson polish that once showed her attention to detail. I could picture her knee's bent against her body, grasping each toe while steadying every stroke of the brush.
Her legs were smooth, with tiny scores scared to her inner thighs. I gripped my fingers over them, and then spread her legs apart. Like crosshatching on a canvas, the markings drew a picture in my head. A portrait of sadness, uncertainty, hesitation and love. Not love for another, more so of herself, ever careful not to slice to deep. . . . .