Uncomfortable truth.
A broken molde is waiting
for the soul to stop breaking
"I don't know what you're looking for", it says.
I don't know who you are, thinks.
You are a murderer of dreams
to comfortable in your delusions
what a dysfunctional team,
body and mind are in destruction.
It hurts how gray you are in your mind
when the mirror screams what you don't like
you promise to heal the wounded brain
but you can't get the demon away.
I’m disappointed on your closure
oh well, sorry you don't have one
such a pity the amount of pressure
put on your shoulders to be no one.
The permanent solution is in your head,
the poison is trying to get ahead
to your pure feelings, almost dying
the sorrow is your companion, is always there hiding.
What a disgraceful present
the past was expecting more
But now the future is resent
now I don't want to be you anymore.
Completed challenge
@LilEnigma, @DrSemicolon, @darius_santiago, @rosetempest, @Lees345, @ThatGirlAJ, @WhiteWolfe32, @dustygrein. @bullercl, @BANNA, @Fire_walker, @TheExorcist21
Thanks for completing the challenge 'Make sense of scents' (theprose.com/challenge/13877). There were some fascinating takes on the world of smell. I don’t feel compelled to announce a ‘winner’. To me, writers read, writers explore, writers examine. To say we enjoy one piece of writing is not to discount another. Apples and oranges. Let’s support one another.
I hope that focusing on this often overlooked aspect of description will not only enhance your writing prowess, but that you will pay closer attention in your daily lives to the scents that enrich our experience. If you are inspired to take it further, try describing one specific scent without comparing that scent to another—it is hard! Most adjectives used for smell embed a comparison already: earthy, mouldy, smoky, and so on. We can clearly distinguish the smell of coffee from the smell of beer (well, perhaps not empty nosed WhiteWolfe!), but what specifically identifies that scent?
Gluttony - I may have posted this before?
He licks his berry-stained fingers, sucking sticky sugar and who knows what else from beneath the nails.
“You know that’s filthy?” Clara’s eyes search his face. He’s all angles. With how easily he devours food you’d expect curves and rolling skin.
Heath leans back in his chair. Appraising. Giving her a once over. “Perhaps,” he pauses, slipping his finger back into the sweet filling pouring out from the crumb in front of him. He leans into her and feels her breath catch as he wipes the sticky mess across her mouth. Their faces almost touch, and she’s still not breathing. “Tastes good though,” he exhales as his tongue pushes its way into her mouth.
And he’s right.
It’s like eating light. It’s like drowning in oxygen. And she cannot stop. It is a hunger she could never describe. And she cannot stop. Her insides are bursting, but she cannot stop. The process of eating this cake has become her one and only need. And it never ends. And Clara must eat it all before he gets the chance to take anymore from her. She feels sick. She wants to stop. She needs to stop. She is suffocating. Food filling her so fast that her stomach cannot contain it. Red dripping from her mouth.
Heath holds her face down in the viscid expanse of sweet debris. “It’s alright, love. Keep going until you can’t. Keep going until your heart stops…”
And Clara weeps as the syrup fills her up. The sugar rushing through her veins, crashing into her heart. And her body cannot keep up. But still she wants more. And just when she thinks she will not fill until it is too late, he pulls her neck back. Her throat is exposed and her mouth is begging her to dig back in. “My turn,” he whispers and sucks every last bit of her out. And he keeps going until she can’t. He keeps going until her heart stops. Sticky morsels clinging to his throat. He keeps going because he can’t stop.
