S
Sky Dream
Guest
A dressmaker once told me that pastels would suit me best, and that I should stay away from harsh reds. And it made perfect sense because such red, such a painful, beautiful scarlet was much too beautiful for me to wear.
But he draped me with its crimson rivulets, coaxing me with empty promises. It ran, tangling bloody ribbons throughout my mangled skeleton to flow relentlessly against my hollow heart.
It's become a part of my soul, just like the protruding ribs that pierce through my transparent skin.
As he motioned me to the dusty mirror, I could only stare at its violent crimson contrast rippling against my sharp alabaster bones, brittle as glass, and coal-black eyes, empty as a new-moon sky.
"It suits you," he said, twirling my insubstantial hair with his finger, sending unexplainable jolts into the pit of my stomach.
"Suits me?" I asked. I couldn't figure out why he thought such a pretty, merciless hue could ever suit me.
"Yes, you're beautiful," he'd breathe, while tracing a hand over my sunken cheekbones, crimson flowers blooming in its wake.
And I would never knew if he was talking about me, or the heartless crimson that cascaded across my gaunt form.
What do you think about it? Bad, good, horrible, okay? Please, only constructive criticism.
Thank you!
But he draped me with its crimson rivulets, coaxing me with empty promises. It ran, tangling bloody ribbons throughout my mangled skeleton to flow relentlessly against my hollow heart.
It's become a part of my soul, just like the protruding ribs that pierce through my transparent skin.
As he motioned me to the dusty mirror, I could only stare at its violent crimson contrast rippling against my sharp alabaster bones, brittle as glass, and coal-black eyes, empty as a new-moon sky.
"It suits you," he said, twirling my insubstantial hair with his finger, sending unexplainable jolts into the pit of my stomach.
"Suits me?" I asked. I couldn't figure out why he thought such a pretty, merciless hue could ever suit me.
"Yes, you're beautiful," he'd breathe, while tracing a hand over my sunken cheekbones, crimson flowers blooming in its wake.
And I would never knew if he was talking about me, or the heartless crimson that cascaded across my gaunt form.
What do you think about it? Bad, good, horrible, okay? Please, only constructive criticism.
Thank you!