Makeup and Rainwater

A Story by Crash

sometimes you can't fix it with "sorry".

When she woke up, the world wasn't blue anymore. But that's ok in the end and maybe if she wished hard enough her head wouldn't explode and ruin everything.

The tubes of paint were in pretty bad shape, and she had finally poured out the paint water that had been festering for half a year. The light still hurt her eyes a little, and she would have to bend over on the floor, but what are these things when you have a small universe at your hands?

Her body rocking back and forth to the sound of a psychotic techno silence, ignoring the pain in her back, for once what her hands created was everything she wanted.

A static headache and a shrine to the colors she hated.

When it was over, and all that could have been lay abandoned on the floor, she collapsed onto the bed, her clothes a little dirty, her back a little sore.

"Inside", she said, "I'll go inside to the place I go when I've nothing left to see and nothing left to tell you.

"I'm afraid. Afraid that January will be lost between the faux warmth of December and the finality of February when I will be one year older

one year less naive

one year closer to sinking into oblivion.

But thats ok, 'cause I stopped think about that a long time ago, and when you stop thinking, you stop being scared

But I am afraid. Of losing the things I'd "die without". But more often I fear the new reasons to breathe that will come with time to replace them and my blue universe will be miles away and repainted.

While I submerge myself in grey vastness and disappear from your lives like the ghost I never was and always wanted to be.

But maybe if I try, the cup will be half full again, if I soak up the water left on the floor after my ribs escaped. And my eyelids fell apart, like old stone and scabs and the way you never thought how I wanted you to.

and I could still see though everything was different, like looking through windows and falling into time and space and memories that slip and slip away unless I grasp them tight and empty to the eternity that starts now.

But now, now I'm lying here with all the things I could say festering in my throat but I won't say them. I'm not that cruel. I won't tell you, my two-dimensional paradox,

how much you were at fault and how much it hurts that you appear to have forgotten everything.

And now I know why I almost cried when reading a certain passage, from a book that made me feel inadequate, and the tears stayed in my eyes and blurred my vision.

Because it was me.

Something once so beautiful and though eternal, wasting away in the dirt and getting uglier and uglier as the world lives on above my head

So the saltiness stings mercilessly the soft skin around my eyes and drips across my cheeks to settle in my ears before I even try to get up and hug my pillow on the floor, shaking as though that will take away the anger, and give back the time I've dreamt away.

I have so many things to do, and so many knew ways to disappoint you. I want to close my aching eyes and lock myself in the inner solitudes that can only be found in those floating moments before and after sleep that never leave you with anything more than the feeling that you have forgotten something crucial.

But instead I'm here with cracking eyelids lined a little too much and a white ceiling under a black sky with no room in my broken head for anything save the made-up conversations full of the things I'm not brave enough to say.

And I want to go back, to when my migraine faded and the walls turned blue when my whole forever shrank to the size of my bedroom and I could. not. stand. to be there. That juvenile desire for the things you don't and never wanted.

When my heart takes over for my head and starts exploding

and time is blue and blurry like an old photograph seen through misted eyes after the sun is gone and darkness has yet again blanketed the world, calling me away into dreams of devils."

Makeup and rainwater dripped off her nose. Maybe now he'd finally see she's as ugly as he is.