Oct
1:53
Posted in Fiction | No Comments »1:53
Night envelops me like an eggshell. I wear her cloak, pitch-black blue laden with stars. Stars poking me through her fabric, stars telling me what to do. Their points puncture my skin; their rays rob me of my vision, cause me to stumble backwards, forwards, tripping side to side. The eggshell broken. I crash into hard soil, feel my teeth break as my face hits the ground. Le goût du sang* overpowers my tastebuds, causing me to wonder how such a metallic taste could possibly be human. Such a cold taste; such a warm liquid. We have to decide what in the blood we identify with: the properties of metal or the properties of heat. Eggshells only last for so long, and soon the world will demand you to choose.
*le goût du sang – French – “the taste of blood”
Author’s Note: It’s dark outside; quite a lovely colour the sky is tonight. Or this morning. Anyway, just a simple free verse piece pour mon plaisir, et ton plaisir, aussi˚. It’s experimental.
I like using French inserts, especially when talking about blood. “Sang” isn’t as heavy or weighty of a word as “blood”, but rather it is more of the nature of blood I wanted to portray here: slick, flowing, almost like a sly character in a spy movie, something not heavy but (thick) liquid and waiting to change. Sometimes your own language isn’t adequate to convey what you mean; anyone else agree?
˚pour mon plaisir, et ton plaisir, aussi – French – “for my enjoyment, and your enjoyment, too”
