voicein_myhead (voicein_myhead) wrote in writers_niche,


                Marred canvas. That’s the word. It’s the word for the sky, a murky grey color streaked by bone white clouds. It’s the word for my arms and thighs, and off white color streaked with scars. I am the sky. It’s going to rain, It rains when I cry. I sit on top of the roof, like a stony gargoyle, unfeeling, un-thought of, unloved. I shiver as a wind blows through my hollow bones. My once muscular figure has dwindled to next to nothing from lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of caring. The Misfits shirt I’m wearing, who knows who it belongs to, hangs off me like the extra skin of an ancient dog. My angel wings would be black, whipping in the cold bursts of air.

                I can feel the rooftop shaking underneath my black boots. The music is loud in there. The band is actually quite appealing. They have the raw energy, they'll make it big. The bodies are twisting and churning in the head. People are back to back, front to front, grinding. The mosh pit has started up again, I can feel it, all the half dressed forms writhing and smacking. Sweat is dripping and being flung. It smells in there, you're burning in the heat, burning in the fire. That’s where you would be, the firey mosh pit. I know. You always loved the mosh pits. You loved the power, the electricity, the excitement, the violence. You loved me…

I need a title! Comments are love. :)


  • Post a new comment


    default userpic