of bloodied horses and broken carriages

The world's spinning round and round and round in circles, turning on her axis, circling the pathway of the sun. It keeps turning, turning, turning in never-ending circles.

It's what they told her. Turn, spin, whirl. Forever.

And at the same time, people are going about their own circles, riding the merry-go-round of life, seated daintily on porcelain horses and carriages, their monotonous lives running past their minds, their very eyes. It's a slow slur, almost drunken and oblivious. It starts out with blasts of colours, excitement seeping through the thin, thin lines of discovery and exploration, then flashes and shimmers in the fading smudges of the rainbow. Sparks fly out in weak glimmers, piercing through the darkened (it's not even night, yet.) folds of our very skies.

And then it dies out.

Then what's remained of the inky, iridescent display melts and crumbles and mixes together into nothing but black. Putrid, evil, ugly black. And then the nightmare dawns upon us (you, we, her, him, them, all of us) and leads us to a routine of monotony, a penciled line that rushes on forever, never stopping, always the same. The headache sets in and turns all of that black into white and black again, flashing pauses of enlightenment are only mere illusions of the eerie tune the ballerina creaks and twirls to. It's desire.

Then sometimes it's too much and you regurgitate your memories and skills, sending them far, far away to somewhere much more blissful (in hopes it won't burn out like that candle that scalded you--it's the faint scent of the joss sticks lingering in the air like wisps of culture drifting away--when you knew you weren't supposed to touch it. That's red.)

And then the world falls to darkness.

Sometimes you wake up with a hangover, supported by tubes and clean, white sheets of death itself.

Most of the time, you don't.

And sometimes, you'll be kicked off the merry-go-round, off the surface of your planet, off to orbit around your own axis, your own route, a piece of rock floating around in space, undecided, lost, done.

She's probably the one who kicked you off.

It's her job, you know. Or so she thinks it's her job.

Perhaps not within the boundaries of a four-walled occupation. Something that's burning, leaking, sizzling under her sheep skin, something that's creeping up (like a wisteria. It's there, just happily settling in, curving around your finger [when you're the one curled around her finger]-- and then it kills you) beneath the pale porcelain of her doll-like innocence. Maybe it's a lust to feel cobwebs interwoven with tall, sticky tales of flaming scarlet upon your cold, clammy skin. Read the letters and words of your complicated and yet so foolish life. Read the names of every single girl or guy that's made your heart race, every single adrenaline rush you've had with coffee running down your system and pushing your head to a light, dizzy tilt.  

It's  interesting. Like abstract art, gore blotting your cold, peeling canvas-of-a-skin. Frayed threads of lost (it was never there, even from the start) life streaming down trembling, cracked skin.

Maybe it's a hobby.

A hobby with 'B's in full capitals, forced out of cracked lips vehemently with sadism pulsing down the curls of its 'Y' and dotting a glossy red neon, puncturing tanned skin. Tanned- you've gone out, but not all out. She's gone far too out. Too far. Like some disoriented moon drifting on the light-headed wisps of hell, skipping between the lava and orbiting- twirling- in its own path, destroying a black hole or two. (They were never big enough to capture her. She would dig and gnaw at their insides, till her nails bled, all just to watch them tear apart and cripple.)

And before you know it, you're off the spinning edges of the glorious ditch-of-a-home. She's laughing, her passion-smothered eyes haunting your last memory, and she's the last person you'll ever see again. You've just been kicked off the planet and left to spin, float, drift apart in space, your bones eventually breaking apart into a million, billion shatters of what you could have done. They dissolve into the thin, thin air (oh, what is air, when you've already departed from life?) and stir faintly around you, before even your own name, your own memory disappears and rots away to a finale of creaking doors and stagnant air.

There's really, nothing much to it.

And you're off the chain, the metallic stains of supposed freedom releasing its hold (grip, tight- suffocating grip) on you. And you're dead. Just a waste of space. Nothing. Nothing more than a disfigured lost cause (that you always were) waiting for nature to claim you back into her gentle arms.

Really, you're always being kicked around. Why don't you ever kick back?

Your morals(teachings on how to gain enlightenment and live forevermore, when you're just dangling precariously on the edge, waiting for her eyes to label you as her next target). Your fervent hope for a better future, forever living by the mantra that claims your kindness will eventually be rewarded. Yes, rewarded. She'll kick you off this nasty world, live the last moments of your life in sheer fear. Sheer realisation the world just is as bad as you might have thought. At least you know the truth before she's unhooked your fingers from the puppet strings you were clinging so tightly onto. Fall away as a helpless victim before the world can transform you into one of those monsters.

Fall away, then.

Fall away.