"Your best nightmare..."

"I've knelt at your altar,
I've cut out my heart;
I've lived in your ruins,
My pain is your art..."

Know that things are breaking, now. Know that they're cold and crumbling.

"...I've never been so alone than with you,
I've never been scared to dream until now,
I can't close my eyes -- I'll carry on screaming..."

"She went off her medication, precious. Said she wouldn't, but she lied to dolly." Little button eyes scrutinized the window...and tiny cloth fingers rose to roll the flower petals into wet smears of red-and-yellow.

'Ruby wounds ope hollow jaws and scream unceasing, silently.' No. That doesn't work there. Does it? 'Slave to sad ex-sanguination' fit in somewhere, I believe. Scrawl-y letters sort of sepia-toned moved in flitters across my face. In this hole that is me, the dead are rolling over. You know what words to say -- but lately they've rung hollow. Chilly. Like nitrous? Like fallen-over dominoes? Are the vine-feelings eating this happiness, too? Are they growing in you? Question marks like puzzle pieces make me more than flesh does.

I can't express this. I can't ask for the things that I want to hear. Know that it's slipping down. Know that it's getting darker. Drops-all-warm-and-thick, skinicide-makes-scissors-stick. I needneedneed a diversion...but it's all 'Synesthesia' and ceiling-fan-shadows.

"Precious, you lied to dolly. Precious, you said you'd behave and do as asked. Precious! Now you're feeling icky, and it's your own fault..."

Lost the battle this time. Back at the orange bottle, and maybe I'll win the war.