Stiletto





Jeweled blades of sensation ripped through me.

I felt the dulcet agony of my bones hollowing, my fingers retracting, the first silken touch of white feathers gracing my flesh. A sheen of glossy black rippled over my eyes, as cool and as dead as the synaptic snap of my thoughts.

Crystal walls of consciousness collapsed, chilling in the cruel wake of a child's whim.

I had been thrust out.

Damn you, arrogant, beautiful child, you rejected me.

Thoughts of liquid nitrogen coldness pervaded.

And then, amidst the fractured ice of my once warm and throbbing pride, a very wicked little mental smile glided through the wasteland, tracing molten gold realization.

The proverbial ray of hope. Or shard of ruthless revenge, depending on one's viewpoint. All a matter of perspective.

And, conveniently enough, a lovely one had just presented itself to me with a sweeping metaphoric bow.

That black velvety path to the tender, vulnerable subconscious was still very much open.

Once invited, always welcome.

I took to the sky.



Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

The rise and fall of the chest, the deliciously vital pumping of the heart, the rapid fluttering of satin eyelids as gray cells fired and awoke in patterns of startlingly rigid complexity-

I watched it all, waiting for the nightly moment when consciousness succumbed to the insidious demand of the subconscious, to the pulsing tendrils of twisted yearning. Waiting for my moment.

Waiting for you.

I've become so very good at waiting, after all. Necessity is an extremely effective motivator.

The promissory kiss of satisfaction, however, is better by far.

The first penetration thrummed through my consciousness like a siren's wail- so viciously sweet, that sensitive, resistant expanse, the soft probing, the first rich taste of that raw, edgy power that churned and writhed within, contracting and clenching.

Forbidden fruit was never out of season. One just had to know how to procure it.

Your subconscious chimed the delicate cadence of entry.

And my moment stretched forth, throbbing - dark and deep and wide.



You crumble so beautifully, my dear.

Cast iron facades shattered by my golden seeds, sown in whispers and caressing strokes. Gray-toned maturity surging to entwine you in all its Hydra threads of morality and mortality, to embrace you with its Medusa touch while crimson vitality still shrieked in your brain. Sweet, cloying desperation whittling fiercely at the edges of your wondrous confidence, your heroine's arrogance that you would best this assiduously structured Machiavellian spider web.

Such a stunning performance of your psyche. The tenderly proffered betrayals, the razing of golden ideals, the stifled explosions of well-polished illusions - and your lovely psyche, becoming so very battered and embittered. Tarnished.

Yet even now, it grasps subtly at quicksilver dreams, reaching, stretching. You still bask in the ethereal glow of your treasured, glittering hope.

Oh, but give me time.



Precious things, those dessicated dreams. Like fine white ash against my lips. Vanilla-scented.

But rich, reeking amaretto, that rip of amorphous horror as the cradled music box exploded against the ground, bleeding copper notes and wispy crinoline, the porcelain head lolling on a stump of white, glistening neck. How your consciousness rent the seeping darkness with that dripping, acid agony.

So achingly brutal as you crushed the second figurine to your chest, your heart beating a wild, frenetic tattoo, your fingers drifting deliriously over the crystal nestled in the velvet gloved hands, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Such a present, my cookie-cutter princess - the delicate tremor of your lower lip, the volcanic subconscious splitting the packed mound of your mind with molten emotion and fire-forged desperation.

Absolutely exquisite, little girl.



Sharp blades become you, my dear.

I've seen how you like to play, glistening silver criss-crossing over that fair flesh, crimson rippling over that endorphin rush warmth. Sipping the dregs of pleasure-pain to slash the cloying cotton of dulled perception. The ivory scars are delicious.

But the predatory subconscious is better by far. Salty-sweet, heaving in the velvet dark. Ravenous for the siren vein that throbs and beats, for the golden tones that drift over its jagged edges in liquid satin kisses, that pump through its tattered corridors with white powdered rapidity.

Ravenous enough to crack the horned portal of your consciousness, the clove-laced invocation dripping like the small red flow that courses down your wrist, pooling in the black leather.

A very wicked little mental smile blossoms in my consciousness, viciously alive.

Invitation accepted.



Winnowed mercurial consciousness, sleek tension etched in crimson finery. The saber of visceral veracity runs deep, with almond-suckle edges ripping sweeter than these confidantes of my moratorium.

My eyes flash darkly golden, sardonic wit rising from smudged, graying ashes. Voracious.

Blood, not unlike your promissory kiss of satisfaction, is quite an effective motivator.

Here's to us.

One stacatto steel kiss later and the roiling vermillion ruptures, a gray cell gush of wrenching, fibrous agony splattering on a silver platter. Pristine snowflake vision blooms, layered in silken, encroaching darkness.

Stentorian silence billows, dissipates.

Welcome back, lord of illusions.

And fade to black.



Oh, how one can smile and smile...

Little princess, such a prize.

Welcome home, darling child.





To Thrust to see the other point of view on this or back to the Labyrinth page with you.