The thick heat clung to all its wretched fingers reached, milking out a lather of sweat upon a soft dewy scar. A scar not yet seen, nor felt, merely hidden away in baby fat with the darkened heat engrossing the rest of her innocent body.
And her blossoming eyes, wryly wandering through the pulp of the marsh. A wetland fevered in blood, a blood not yet milked from a wound, for then merely taunting the mud with its metallic tinge.
And the fauna's screams careening from the looming Cyprus. The predatory jeers of the prey to mate as the sun of that day faintly died in a wondrous place past the tree line. And the child... driving her fat fleshy fingers along the slick rot of the porch. The birth water easing her past the heavy doorframe, yet trapping her still within the decaying womb: this roof extended over a screen.
Her soft flesh, scraping along the wooden shards, marrying the bacteria born of her parents filth to her fingertips. Barely virgin from infection, a yearned infection distorted through the lens of a flower, now blossoming within a screen. Falling deftly asleep to the maternal lullaby of screams.
She was thrust into herself unencumbered, her shaken sight falling into he pupils swallowing her iris, groveling to absorb and hoard whatever graced that void inside of her. The umbilical warring into her head as it all became too much to hold against the small hardened weight of her skull.
And in some darkness, deep within the womb she still was raging inside of, that immense heavy darkness she floated in
YOU ARE READING
The Cry of Eyre
Horror"would that i, devil am i, made so as not to cry in the wailing of soil? devil am i, destined to pry decaying hands of the wrought and coiled? the howling hymn of her grievances mourning, soiled love by the free, "call on me, sweet lover in me, t...
