BLOODSTONE PRESS

--Open hearts and throats alike with reckless abandon. Unaplogetically.--

12/21

12/28

-I'm not as simple as they want me to be

-As our eyes meet for the first and last times

I’m not as simple as they wanted me to be. Gonna cut off all my hair tonight with rusty kitchen scissors. Not gonna wipe the lipstick off my teeth. I feel like Persephone vs springtime. As if she’s finally evolved past flower petals. Finds viciousness in rosebuds. Living thorns. Without the prettiness I’m just a blade in hand. I’ve thrown out all the knives. The glare of that blade looking at me, through me was too much for me. I can’t see my reflection without thinking about being killed. The spine isn’t straight. The bullet isn’t silent. The screams of the damned crescendo.
As our eyes first meet I am entranced. I feel the blood rush up to my face in embarrassment. It was rare for me to feel this way about someone. 
 
As our eyes meet for the last time blood ceases to travel up to my face. You apply pressure to the blood vessels in the side of my neck. Your large hands around my neck lessening the blood flow to my brain. I see a madness in your eyes. A rare rage.
-Alexandria Aragon

11/9

11/13

-the paralysis that comes with opening your eyes when REM has not finished.

Thurs: a cloth ghost stained red

No one knows what happened the split second between the audible crack and the moment she resumed dancing, but her face was not pained. No agony. Beware of girlhood with sharp teeth. Perfection weaponized. The look on her face was a house burning. Urgency to save what you can. She at last began to cry, tears windswept from her face by her own strength in motion. She held composure, a wide broken open smile dampened now by salty tears. 
Her ghost will be wrung out red but tonight you’ll forgive her even if she does not forgive herself. It was shame on her face. Inconsolable rage at oneself. The beginning of a very vicious cycle. She dances with her head high and shoulders bowed. The line within her is longer, as she is brought closer, momentarily to infinity. 
 
I have this dream: this is the place where they drag little girls and nail them to trees and let birds peck at them so blood runs down their legs. Crucifixion. One day you can hang yourself from one of these branches and join the dead woodland creatures with twisted necks. Bones and leaves will break under heavy feet. But the deer tread lightly so as not to hurt the underbrush. All of this velvet rot is just out in the open. Pet names you never liked. Vulnerability. “and I will be dumped where the weed decays”. Everything is a dead color of green. Paralysis and a cracking sound. Where you find feral teeth and instinct. Allow yourself to bleed out and turn blue.