These last couple of days have been a bit like drowning. I've been unable to form words since my lungs have been filled, and my heart stopped beating for a split second (the longest second of my life). Chloé went for a walk, said she needed air from the outside. Didn't want me to come so I stayed, with eyes sparkling by the rejection. The water was coming out, it wasn't just filling me up on the inside anymore. When she returned hours and several bottles of wine later she threw a dead rabbit on the floor I thought we could give this to the crow, death, when he visits tonight
The rabbit must have been dead for days, the blood was dark red, almost black and it smelled like flesh do when its decaying. Eyes opened, I reached forward and gently shut his eyelids closed. Lifeless eyes are judging. Like they're let in on a big secret , like they've seen everything and more. Like they despise us and our ignorance
And now lovers, the water has filled up every part of me, taken an exit through my eyes and started to pour on our hardwood floors. For every step I take, the water splashes around me creating small circles. and when they die out, I feel the need to make more. I'm worried.
In black dresses, both touching the dirty parisian streets as we walked, we faced the city where everyone thinks their true love lives. Chloès illnes have gone from bad to worse, but she'll die if she stays inside anymore she said so we put lip stick on our torn lips, covered our bruises from the last time they met.
Plum wine, warm nights and cigarettes made us feel like something from an old movie. I'd say it was pretty perfect. As perfect as something ever gets before one starts analyzing. Starts to really think about whats going on. Why was Chloè wearing the same dress as me (she hates black)and why was here eyes seaking for a man (She hates men) And why did she, later on, walk into my room and kisses the man whose skin my nails were piercing
Nothing was perfect when I started to think, but I didn't untill now. Last night was perfect. But today, last night was awful.
When I slowly opened my eyes this morning the first thing I saw might just be the most beautiful sight ever. Chloè in her long white nightgown, sitting in the window smoking a pink cigarette. The wind played with her hair and her lips had the colour of plum wine. I didn't want her to know that I was awake, didn't want to ruin the moment. After ten deep breaths her eyes met mine. A smile spread across a her face and inside of me, then she said the strangest thing
Belle if you were a man, I'd hate you
Father figure Frank called. Men are weak, they always want more than they can have. More than they deserve. I have things to take care of before I can return to LA. If I'll ever return.
I was supposed to leave for London two days a go. Walk the streets where I was turned into what I am now. But Chloè is pale, feverish and sad. So I'm trying to gather some aulturism, some sort of motherly love and take care of her. No friend or lover would leave such a fragile little sparrow on her own. So I'll stay in white sheets and a cloudy apartment where dreams are easily mistaken for reality. I'll stroke her hair and tell her that she will be all right. This isn't the decade of the black death although it sometimes feels like it. The sweat on her back will dry out and her temperature will go down. But untill then, I'll stay by her side like a soldier armed with care and love.
A black crow has been visiting us for the last couple of days, he's claimed the balcony his and returns with cadavers every night. Chloé calls him Death, says he's here to collect her soul. French girls, so dramatic, so fragile. So beautiful. His name isn't Death, he's just a symbol of our decaying souls.
Fois gras, macaroons, plum wine and cigarettes. That's what my body contains. Or not just contains, but the diet it actualy survives on.
From what I've heared, parents make their kids eat vegetables and fruit to stay healthy. Mine never did. The ice queen that is my mother thought vegetables was for poor people, and fruit is only necessary for cocktails. I guess I'm going to die young.
And that calls for a celebration.
There is an ocean inside of me, storming with anger and a lust for revenge.
I've never been the angry kind, not the kind of girl who raises her voice or lashes out infront of people. My mother tought me to keep feelings prisoners locked inside and never let them see the light of day, never show anything. A neutral face is a beautiful face she said.
and beauty is what keeps us alive, isn't it? So therefor I follow her example, I keep the storm inside and never let anyone know that all I really want to do, all I long for is to scream from the top of my lungs. To call the girl who passes me on the street a whore, to give the man who rolled of me a black eye. That's what my heart desires. But we all know I never will. She is her mothers daughet my teachers used to whisper when I gave them the silent treatment eight years old, like a stubburn old lady. Maybe I am. But I chose my father figure. I chose him.
Paris is burning, I'm cold
On my nightstand, a half full bottle of plum wine. Not half empty, not today. Chloè next to be, blond hair covering the pillow, her freckles resembleing the eifeltower if you look at her with eyes wearing glasses of imagination. Like a child she slept, eyelashes moving to insure me that she was dreaming. I wish I could flee into her dreams. I never dream, but then again I barely sleep. I just go unconsious.
With the plum wine in one hand, I sat down in the window - opened my mouth and placed yet another cigarette between my bruised and torn lips. Evidence of lost love. And now I'm telling you, I must be the biggest clichè ever and for that I apologize.
