Skin's Crawling Does it always have to start at such an empty hour? The companion of steady breathing and dead limbs, climbing, reaching in the dark.Skin's Crawling by ~placeb0-king
It does…it does, I know it does. This sick, nightly routine that waits – just waits – for the sign or sound that points a clawed, bent finger towards me, giving me away. Betraying me, flawlessly, at that empty hour. Dead limbs.
And it always has to start with that sound. That hollow, knocking sound of what might be flesh – crawling, insipid flesh to match mine, always matching mine – knocking, knocking, against glass. A dull tapping, so repetitive, so eerily
Glancing My eyes fall to the floor; they're hanging so heavily, weighted down in their sockets. You stand silently by the door. You say I look ashamed. I look ashamed. You ask if I'm ashamed. I answer.Glancing by ~placeb0-king
"No."
"I don't believe you." Your voice is smooth and delicate. It slides over your tongue, coats it with a thin, slippery film.
"That's not my fault." My voice crawls to you. My voice is gravel, grating against the lacerations that line my throat. My tongue twists and curls in my mouth, as the words choke out over and between my teeth.
"This is all your fault." Your whisper is a disease that attacks my ribs. It burrows its way into the marro
LaceLaceLace by ~placeb0-king
A soft sound, the sound of contact. Fabric against skin, and skin against bones. Scraping together the way they all do. Scraping. Dragging.
Feet scrape across falsely coloured tiles, each movement dulling them down. Wearing away at that hardness, that completeness of these stained floors.
The faint pastels of the walls drip down in even, brick formation. Imitation mimicking something so greasily tactile. Lights blare overhead, sitting in tombstone rows amongst protruding metallic sprinkler heads, scattered across cheap, hospital-white panels and ventilation ducts.
Shoes are scraped against floors, leaving lazy black tracks as the
Scramble CageI am out of order. I am out of order. This is where we belong, remember? Caught inside this space, so confined, so enclosed. Locked inside, trapped inside. Hidden. Isolated. From each other? No, no. From the rest of the world. It's alright like this, isn't it? Trapped inside this prison cell? The bars are made of ivory, and the purity, and the whiteness of it is blinding. And so we stay, curled up, intertwined and crippled in our togetherness. Ivory bars digging into us, holding us immobile.Scramble Cage by ~placeb0-king
There is a pulse. A dull, rhythmic pounding inside our cell. A sound to count the time that passes by. A dull, rhythmic pounding to be our background
Sta.sh
