Beatrix King and I
by Josh Marks
Porcelain and I
and my old ring
Ezekiel Woods
myself by 
fatespawn
She was, then, alike to a small wisp or shred of ash briefly twisting in the air; shattered and glamorized by movement.
i didn't love her. Even with her perfect chin and tangled hair, even in that strained moment i did not love her. Nor do i suppose that i ever would have grown to. Instead, that moment -my first defiling glimpse of her- was like a fierce obsession. A minute [longer? When, really, did it end?] devoted to her silent face and the curve of her closing eyelids. i wonder now, looking back, had i ever doted so much on anything as i did on her; on something so small even as her little ankle? There is no doubt in my head at all that there has since been no equal but it seems that i can measure nothing from my youth, no other day but hers.
She twisted her heals into the mud and grass. And with that movement, despite how small, her innocence molded with a primitive energy that maddened every one of my senses. i could smell the wet silk clinging to her ribs and almost feel -from anticipation alone- her ivory wrists enclosed in my hands.
Did it makes me such a monster to want to bruise her as i did? Leave my mark?
i did not dwell on that curiosity.
i stood there looking at her longer than perhaps i should have, did she become impatient? She opened her eyes. And i knew that i could never discover her. She was so surreal there like a crack of thunder to accompany the rain. No matter how i twisted myself about her or how completely i let her presence encompass me, i would not understand.
Then i felt the innocence in myself, was it even her to begin with?
In that silence it didn't matter. She was innocent, i was innocent, both of us, still yet, possessing our own senses of vulgarity. It was simply silent.
Except for the rain
pounding violently on our shoulders.
~in response to someone else's paragraph~
i didn't love her. Even with her perfect chin and tangled hair, even in that strained moment i did not love her. Nor do i suppose that i ever would have grown to. Instead, that moment -my first defiling glimpse of her- was like a fierce obsession. A minute [longer? When, really, did it end?] devoted to her silent face and the curve of her closing eyelids. i wonder now, looking back, had i ever doted so much on anything as i did on her; on something so small even as her little ankle? There is no doubt in my head at all that there has since been no equal but it seems that i can measure nothing from my youth, no other day but hers.
She twisted her heals into the mud and grass. And with that movement, despite how small, her innocence molded with a primitive energy that maddened every one of my senses. i could smell the wet silk clinging to her ribs and almost feel -from anticipation alone- her ivory wrists enclosed in my hands.
Did it makes me such a monster to want to bruise her as i did? Leave my mark?
i did not dwell on that curiosity.
i stood there looking at her longer than perhaps i should have, did she become impatient? She opened her eyes. And i knew that i could never discover her. She was so surreal there like a crack of thunder to accompany the rain. No matter how i twisted myself about her or how completely i let her presence encompass me, i would not understand.
Then i felt the innocence in myself, was it even her to begin with?
In that silence it didn't matter. She was innocent, i was innocent, both of us, still yet, possessing our own senses of vulgarity. It was simply silent.
Except for the rain
pounding violently on our shoulders.
~in response to someone else's paragraph~
