BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 5.16 | “The Body”

ezraxkelly​.

.

“ Seems like if you ask a wine enthusiast that you are damned to hell. I swear, they hold the most judgement of all.” It certainly was not Ezra at all. All he could imagine is someone being philosophical reciting poetry. Vivid imagination he guessed but that was the first thing that popped into the man’s mind. Ezra would have laughed at her comment, but he had the whole broody vibe going on. So, she kind of hit the nail on the head with the assumption. “I think I can remember a few Charles Manson lines. One is like : ‘we’re not in wonderland anymore, Alice.’ Maybe I should start leading with that one. She will figure that I am a little too crazy to try and pursue.” Desperate times call for desperate measures. “Or, it could backfire and she might think it as just passionate. I think I just need to find a new bar.” That sounded like a better option. 

-

damned to hell :   that she is certain  ,      would take very little effort ,     if any .     some days she feels as though that’d been decided the moment she ripped through mother’s womb  ,     bloody and screaming   ,     begging to crawl back inside  .     she flashes those fawn eyes at him ,   perpetually amused   ,      dark brows descending into a bewildered frown .   ❛     aparently   the most thirst     too ...    ❜      it’s almost an after-thought ---- a musing spoken aloud that slipped through unfiltered    &   she urges hself to stifle the chortle that follows ,   squinting .     ❛    hmmm ...     i’d go for the whole  ‘ jigiji geeji geeja ‘ speech .     if that don’t scare her off back to her husband ,   nothing will .     ❜   so she’s a true crime addict .    surely to be expected ,     wasn’t it ?      a maladaptive coping mechanism  ,      undoubly .     seeking understanding where there can be no healing  .       &   she’s quite certain there was a husband ,      because there was a ring .     she’d spotted it  ,      sparkling in the woman’s finger as she waved it around  ,    gesturing generously as the awkward encounter unfolded .     ❛    you can’t run from every cougar you meet ---    eventually you are gonna have to face them ,    you know ?      ❜     a dainty hand lands atop his shoulder in a state of docility ,    patting it reassungingly as one might a toddler threatening to bawl .     ❛           come on ,   manson ...     i’ll protect you .    i’ll even buy you an actual ...     drinkable drink .    what do you say ?    ❜

alllteeth​.

Osprey encircles plaice,      feels the looming release up ahead as though it were a beginning of a thunderstorm and the humidity is tugged away.       She wants to reassure the lamb that the slaughter is the first stage of rebirth.     How when she first wandered into the butcher shop it was terrifying at first,     and she ached with remorse    —     but eventually the pain faded and was replaced with something venom-fed.       Adapting to poison means becoming it.     Forming one’s own virus to the entirety of the dark forest,     now no sharp-toothed jaguar can bite her,     no trap can ensnare her,     no talon can draw blood.       It is here that she observes the primitive desire of survival.     Endurance as a honeyed sweetness,     bursting in the mouth with the thickness of blackberry jam.        The reaction is just as sugary,      slathered onto the tension in the room with the fragility of a sheep pretending to be a hound.     But she sees that narrowness in definition.      She knows the hare can be two things.        She knows the fur of any animal is just a coat.      The softness,     the ripeness,     is underneath the hide.        A firm step forward,      enjoying the way her heels click against the flooring,        like a heavy tick of a loud clock.       ‘I don’t believe you .’        The coo is meant to be cold,     it is how to soothe the startled animal.     How to lure it back to submission.      ‘I am also not as I seem    […]     but I know my hands are dirty.        It is freeing,    you know.     Admitting the blame.     I can help you.’    

a spoonful of denial fills her mouth  ,       avoidance .     laura feels herself squeezing herself between the cracks of plausable deniability  ,       half-moons sunk into the soft cushions of purple-embroiled palms  ,     anxiety stirring in her chest  ,     threatening to climb up her throat in a wave of nausea  .      ❛    i didn’t do anything .    ❜      where silence has lingered  ,    rises the pillar of affirmation :     purposeful intent made of steel will  . brick by brick  ,     she builds her wall  ,   high as the heavens above ,     between the narrow space between them .        nobody could ever climb it ,     break it   ,     or peer beyond its inpenetrable structure  .   she’d be safe in there :     safe   &   sound ,   and alone .      in her tower of sorrow  ,    she will repeat those words like a mantra  ,    a quiet prayer in a sinner’s tongue ,   hoping one day it’ll come true .        that she could manifest it into fruition by sheer will .    convince herself she could do it -----  if she tried hard enough  .     that she could do anything  ,     except admit the truth aloud :     because yielding is losing   &    losing this battle is   abandoning the idea that she’d ever been a good person  .   and that’s all she has left  ----  all that remains from that little girl who’d been torn apart in these cold streets by ravenous wolves .    she needs there to still be something worth salvaging from the massacre ,      that despite all the tragedy spilled over those yellow files  ,     undoubly rummaged by aranya’s hungry eyes  ---  something good survived .         she needs it be to be true .     it would not be freeing  ,      as the other describes :       it would be an abandoning of senses  .    the brutal unhoming of a body .        ❛      why all  this suspicion ?     why me ?    i never did anything to you ...     ❜

alllteeth​.

The wolf is on edge.     She will begin the day like any other,     a splash of cold water on her face,     a white sheet draping over the mirror,      some scent of pine in the room   —   as though the wilderness has found her even amid the facade of domestication.        Deception clings like a parasite,     and those familiar to the symptoms are more perceptive to the forked tongues.     For example:     Aranya has been a dove,     a doe,    a grizzly,     a serpent,    and a shark.      But she is none of those things.        Still,     their old skins stick to her     —     like burrs.       Therefore,     she can smell this puss-filled secret in the air between them.      The girl,     the doll,     is half-alive.     Pale limbs and skeletal remains,    rosy lips perked in a pout to reveal something akin to overt awareness.      Yes,    the prey always acknowledges that feeling of being hunted.     It is natural to them,     and not any less terrifying.     The corpse is blue,     bloated,     and yet all too present    —    still the main character in this performance of control and compliance.     Her tongue raps once against the roof of her mouth,    a clicking sound that holds the loose form of chastisement,    but no hint of maternal instinct     —     no warmth.       She circles and she touches,     like an orca nudging a stunned seal pup.      A fingertip trailing along the woman’s shoulder before it drops to the counter,      white-toothed smile floating into view.        ‘Mistakes draw attention.      You should already know this,    Птичка.’      A pause,     head tilting as if to study Laura’s face with a dry thrill amid her stone-like expression.      ‘You’ve made many.’

fight or flight seems to immediatly kick in ----     a drop of each poison culminating at the center of her as aranya finds it in herself to    enclose    on its target  ,      hands slick  ,     habitually picking at the scab of her wounds until something’s gaping   &   bleeding   &    ready to     pour salt in .     laura loathes this helplessness  ,      this crippling fragility which renders her torpid and numb under her masterful  ,     prying touch   ---      dreading to unravel ,   a yelp in her throat  ,     dead in its tracks  ,     a jolt in her nerves making her nearly   jump   from the seat  ,       primal instincts of survivalism signaling her to run .    ❛   get off me !     ❜      startled  ,     eyes wide as the moon   &     brows furrowed  .    that toothed maw unhinges before her into smile that is not a smile  ,     all gums   &  knives  ,      and her bodies coils within itself  ,    ready to be swallowed whole  .      laura’s jaw hardened like cement  ,    muscles contracting tight enough to leave a bruise   ——-  and she stands  ,     she stands in those two bowed legs with curled fists ,     feet thuding against the ground  ,       backing from its designated seat ,    and teeth grinding in a shallow attempt to contain this bubbling rage that that threatens to overflow .      she never wanted to feel this small ,       ever again .     and so ,     though  that halo she dons is adorned by barbed wire  ,        and her hands  ,     no matter how rabidly she scrubs and scrubs under the open tap  ,       are encrusted in blood  ,     her taught tongue leaps to her defence like a trained soldier :       ❛      i didn’t do anything .     ❜

status: closed starter for @alllteeth​​

guilt wears down bird-bones shoulders into a slouch ,     the looming shadow that has etched itself to her heels trailing ever so close behind  .     she does not to look to see if it’s there ---    doesn’t have to .      ghosts are not so easily exorcised by will alone .     dainty fingers are all knotted within itself  ,    chin perched atop the high table      &     spine bent into an arched shape  ,      body tossed carelessly like a neglected raggedy-ann doll ,     its life-like ,    glossy eyes following the hound’s every gesture .      if only she could dig a hole inside herself ,       she’d crawl in there never to be seen again .    ❛    can you stop looking at me    like that ?    ❜      mellable even in her demands ,    laura finds herself in the skin of an aberration suddenly on display under her scrunitizing gaze ,      plucked straight from a circus act .

domcarrizos​.

     “ laura ? ” tone laced with worry , eyes looking over her soaking wet appearance. he shakes his head a few times , putting his maroon umbrella over the both of them. “ amor , what are doing out here ? ” dom glances around , the street pretty dead except for the occasional car passing through. the thunder rumbled in the distance , then a flash of lightening cracked in the sky. the storm was right above them. “ come with me , my car is just around the corner. ” 

        the soft spot for laura developed quickly , there was something about her ; the way she carried herself as a walking paradox , one that immediately latched to domenico those three years ago. he vouched for her , when she used to be a dancer and from that moment on he looked after her ; ensured she had everything she needed. “ where have you been ? i haven’t heard from you in a couple days. ” asking , speed walking to his car. 

-

an open heart dangles from her sleeve :      wide    &     ripe for the taking .   tear a piece  ----     two  ,        three  .     it was made to sustain injury  .      meant to be torn between the ravenous teeth of the wolves who prowl these sleepless streets  .       the tall looming shadow takes shape  :     undistinguishable features bleeding into familiarity as daggers ceases to descend over her ebony crown .     ❛    dom!   ❜     the name leaps from her tongue doused in the poison of adoration  .    bird-bone arms flung themselves with a will of their own   ,     as they do  ,     morphing into slippery eels that coil around the broad grip of his shoulders   &    squeeze .       ❛    i was coming back from -- um ...    visiting a friend ,   ❜     staggering for a parcial truth ,   she unlatches herself slowly ,    attempting to remain under the narrow space offered by the conveniently placed umbrella .   ❛   i guess i lost track of time ...   ❜

she is only half - girl   ,     half - dream  :     perpetually drifting across the thin veil of reality  ,    never fully awake to the ugliness and grime which touch the bottom of these aimless  ,     wandering feet .     cheeks blots of curdled red ,    her dimpled smiles always so sincere   ,      stripped of societal pretenses   ,      of the burdens of conventionality  .       ❛    oh ...    it’s like  ----  people don’t stop being a handful just ‘cuz they stop breathing ...    you know ?    ❜      beaming still ,     laura doesn’t elaborate further  -----      it’s of her fickle nature to leave words floating like plum feathers in the air .    ❛    i’ve missed you !    ❜      she chirps gleefully ,      cold fingers pressed to his forearm .    the hard hitting rain follows close behind  ,   nails against concrete  ,    nipping after their nimble heels .

inscuciant​.

status: closed | @girlmcrtis​

He, for one, found immense joy in such amusement parks. Occasionally visited in his youth with pitying peers, it’s a sobering thought to realize how long its been since his last trip. Not to this park specifically but rather in general. He almost got flung past the stars the last time he hopped onto a rickety ride. But that was only between him, his friends, and the heavens.

That being said, Simon’s had his fun since relocating and having found his footing. Just on a more.. muted level. The regular type of outings that adults do when tied to their work life more than their personal. Occasions such as dinner with the same lot he toiled with everyday, a healthy dose of drinking and idle chatter on the side..

Yeah, it’s been far too long since an actual outing.

And what better time to refresh his memory than now?

Features steeled into a look of absolute seriousness, he glanced at Laura once tickets were torn. “We are not leaving until I’ve had my spine twisted into a pretzel from that barely constructed ride in particular.” There, just at the right corner of his lips, a sly smile almost curled through. Keyword — almost. “And a funnel cake— if not two.”

doused in the flashing neon-color signs ,      the pale canvas of her skin becomes immersed in the psychodelic atmosphere .    starry eyes are wide as the moon ,   perched high  &  proud atop the sky tonight ,    clear and bright as that of a child eager to reach for anything and everything within its peripheal .    the ( distantly ) familiar scent of burnt sugar   &    salted pretzels immediatly greets her back into this fogged revérie ,    filling her with this strange sentiment of longing for things that were never there .     if she could live in a memory ,   she’d live here .

❛     hey !    [ ... ]    i didn’t know you could eat food .     ❜      she quips ,    stripped of ill-will if it ought to be anything at all .     she sees something   twist    in the corner of his mouth ,     something not quite as macabre as it often is   &    wonders if his muscles have always been capable of doing that .      ❛     let’s go on the ride first :     i'd rather die on an empty stomach .      ❜     she feels the need to declare ,    spotting a mischevious glint in his eye .   no way she’s letting him shove two funnel - cakes in his mouth   &    then procceed to sit next to her in the ride .

buzzing with bottled excitement  ,      she props herself up to the tip of her toes   ,      arm safely tucked within his own   &    nudging ahead .       ❛     come on ,     this way !     ❜

ofmurphs​.

         +

      the  routine  of  his  existence  had  begun  to  wear  him  down  to  the  point  that  he  was  leaving  his  house  late  at  night  to  go  downtown. he'd  park  his  car  anywhere  -  anyplace  -  and  then  get  out  and  go  shopping. he'd  walk  inside  kiosks  now  and  then  to  fetch  a  bottle  of  water  or  a  magazine . sometimes  he  wishes  he'd  get  mugged  on  occasion . that  some  random  man  in  a  balaclava  would  approach  him  with  a  pistol  or  a  knife ,  threatening  to  harm  him  until  he  handed  over  his  money . something  thrilling ,  you  know . he  doesn’t  even  find  pleasure  in  his  work  anymore . the  blood  on  his  hands  has  faded  to  oblivion . is  she  paying  attention ?  does  he  give  a  damn ?  

     when  she  brings  up  the  subject  of  death,  he  smiles  again. “ then  we’d  better  stay  out  of  her  way. ” she  looks  at  him  with  gorgeous  doe  eyes. despite  her  innocent  demeanour ,  she  has  a  sinister  underbelly  to  her  gaze .  there’s  a  little  delay  before  she  responds. for  a  brief  time ,  he  believed  she  would  reject  his  proposal . who  would  consent  to  go  inside  a  stranger’s  home ?  specially  under  these  circumstances . “ no  trouble at all .” 

     regardless  of  her  reasons,  elias  leads  her  inside  -  crossing  the  threshold. once  inside  the  building  he  pulls  down  his  hoodie  to  reveal  his  face  to  her. he  can  see  her  a  lot  clearer  now. “ it’s  the  fourth  floor. ”  he  adds,  heading  towards  the  elevator. once  inside  the  metal  box,  he  pushes  the  number  4  on  the  wall  and  waits  for  it  to  start  moving. “ i’m  elias,  by  the  way. ”  he  figures  he  might  as  well  introduce  himself  than  leave  it  to  the  imagination.

-

       dampness clings to her skin like uncut diamonds ,      its transluscent sheen trickles down slow and shaky ,    accompaning the shallow descent of her lungs .    it does not occur to her to think ill of the wolf who places himself in her path ,    to pass judgement  ,     to question what might come of it .     her feet merely shadow his own  ----  guided by this habitual susceptiblity ,     hoping to land somewhere warm .       once inside  ,    he unravels  ---   strips himself of the cloak which previously enshrouded him in such mystery ,     &     her heart is rests easier .      

         bashfulness ensues .      a rose blooms  ,    wild  &  vivid on pallid cheeks ,    flesh otherwise rendered torpid by the howling wind outside ,      which gnaws still at the sore joints of her spine with needle-like teeth  ,      mercilessely reaping a       shivers  .       she bristles  ,     recoiling within herself :    a self-made cocoon of elbows and hands ,    searching for safety the only place she’d always knew where to find it .      ❛    oh ...      ❜     those big brown eyes flutter up at him ,    wide   &    horrified .     that’s right ;   she had yet to ask for his name :    her hooded savior .   ❛    i’m sorry ,   --- i’m laura .     ❜    sounding impossibly small and apologetic ,   she furls  &   unfurls those tiny fingers  ,     in and out of the pale cushions of cold hands  .    

❛    i get a little ...     rattled --- with thunderstorms .     i’m normally much more appreciative of people who save me from drowning ...  ❜     laura finally finds the words that had been amiss  ,      lost in a fog of uncertainty ;       clearing the icy hoarseness from her throat ,     face paler than ever .      in the elevator’s door reflection ,     she is a ghostly smudge :    ivory and blurry ,   standing in violent contrast next to his oustretched ,       dark form ---- close to an abstract painting you’d find hanging in a backroom somewhere  .     ❛     but   thank you ...    i promise i’ll be out of your hair soon .     ❜

The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson

status: closed starter for @sheraze​​

morbid fascinium :      she’s inherited it along with the meticulousness of his touch  ,     the unriveled attention to the detail  ,     the delicate precision with antibiotic - soaked cotton balls ;     how tenderly to apply it as to not break the dermis  .      not make the subject squirm .    what a foul thing she is  .     rotted to the core .      what hope does the fruit has when the very roots are sick ?      death has infected every cell in her body  ,       and though it is a strange bedfellow ,     she welcomes it   ----   it is all she’s ever known .     laura does not flinch at the sight of blood ,      or the metallic scent that invades her nostrils  .    she never scolds dana for being reckless  ,     or asks her to stop chasing after the grim reaper into the night .  they have an unspoken agreement :  they won’t recognize each other as ghosts ,    and in turn ,    they get to feel tangible and living like all the others .

she inspects dana with careful regard ,     as she does the bodies on outstretched over her cold metal table   ------     as her dad did its victims  ,     meticulously searching for scratches and bruises ,    spindly fingers ghosting  over apple-red cheeks ,            ❛    you have such a lovely face ,   ❜        laura humms  ,    demeanor meek ,    playful but morose .   the sting of the preassure she applies berable but ever constant .     ❛     dana ,     ❜         a voice calls .     it comes from her body ,    but sounds like more like an echo at the bottom of a well  .      ❛    if you had to go away someday ...      would you tell me first ?     ❜

Marla Miniamo, from “Sea Salt”

alllteeth​.

@girlmcrtis.    harlem’s  main  gym  ,  four   pm.    

The bloodline is not sated with her sacrifices.       It is a hungry lineage that remains empty and unfed,      hopeful for any meaty substance that will replace all primitive desires to rule.        A long road loomed ahead of Isabella and she felt that the further she trudged down it,         the more desolate the landscape became.      There were no longer any rolling green hills nor any babbling brooks that childhood had once offered her.       There’s only dust and dirt,     perhaps even some bodies buried underneath the quiet tire trails marking an old path.        She is committing to the same mistakes as her ancestors,       but still the song continues   —     still, she is eager for her finality.      In the present company,     however,    she thrives.      Her son,     her boy,     her prince stands in the middle of the mat,   preparing another right hook to the other child he’s sparring with.       It is all play,   of course,   all practice.     Yet,    her body is tense,    a desire to protect Julián from the world of violence mixes with the urge to prepare him for it.    An instinctive reach of her hand finds itself gripping the pale wrist of Laura,     the timid girl   —    the haunted rabbit.    Yet,   she knew there was boiling blood underneath that exterior.     She knew the strong ones from the weak.    ‘Dodge,    mijo,   dodge!’      A firm encouragement spoken aloud,    white she apologetically loosens her hold on the other woman.     A head tilt,     gaze still strictly forward to keep her son in her eyesight,     but voice honeying with maternal love even for those who are not her blood.          ‘Boxing is about endurance and strategy more than it is about physical strength.      Much like survival.     Do you agree?’

staggering  ,     doe - eyed she :  half - moons carved into soft palms ,   heart lodged her throat ,    she straightens those bambi legs again  &   again ,    and still they quiver with each clash of glove - claded fists ,       threatening to crumble like dominoes  .     violence and children should not co-exist  :        their gentle hearts should be nurtured  ,     their innocence handled with care  ,     their their bodies cradled in the arms of a doting mother .     but the world is an open maw  ,      wide and full of teeth .     it will devour him sooner or later ,     she understands .      isabella only wants to make sure he is not digested in the belly of this monster ,      this stupid ,     hungry ,    consequentionless monster .      because it doesn’t care that he’s innocent  ,       that he’s too young ,     that he’s blameless  ,       it will gnaw on his bones all the same  .      she wants him to be able to carve his way out with just his teeth ,      because odds are :    he’ll have to .       it breaks her heart all the same  .    a sore thumb smooths down isabella’s iron fist ,     reassuing ,    soothing in its circled pattern .    her heart leaps violently ,     threatening to jump out of her mouth  ----- but she catches it between her teeth ,     and puts it to rest back in its glass cage once the little prince successfully dodges another sneaky attack .      ❛   he looks like really he’s enjoying himself .   ❜     she releases a breath she’d been holding ,   chest descending as isabella’s grasp loosens .      some ( but not all ) of the tension seems to drift from her shoulders .     ❛    sure ...      i mean ---      i don’t know much about boxing ,    but i think ...    you can learn to endure anything if you try hard enough .    we do whatever we have to do to survive  ,     at the end of the day .      ❜

Psychout For Murder (1969)

The Love Witch (2016) dir. Anna Biller