'DEEP'—Her Touch Is Empty

She tamed their heart’s beast, by being troubled against a wall. Stuck in position, she could not give what they desired. A lost envoy rests on the shoulders of this one, she thinks. Peering past the bathroom situation and the countless other times she tempted men to cross her boundaries, neither a whore nor a prude, she only wanted to live in the same light as her peers.

Sadly, it costs a price to live in this household to which the host is unknown amongst its inhabitants. She stares past her friends, huddled around one bottle to gaze upon what she finds a simple hearted boy, who is not there for any thrill or to have an unpleasant time. The melancholy rests under her eyes, a tear flooded with immoral pessimism tempts her wit. She alludes to her last encounters with the opposite sex; rough, belligerent, untamed, and without any moral awareness. Sad it is to see the one purist amongst these demons to let go and infiltrate the heart’s feelings.

After her last ones she could not relieve herself of this mess, then after a trip to the restroom, she knotted up her hair, pulled down her skirt, and tidied up. She approaches the lost convict in disarray, “How is it you sit there without a cup in hand and find pleasure in the smokiness of the room? Have you not drunk enough to satisfaction? Or is it the emptiness that drowns your heart too, that keeps you still in this corner with the of many lingering past your presence. What is it that keeps you at home when you are here?”

The boy looks up at the girl, he knows her nature and her specialties and offers no jury to her morals. “See, I do not partake in these festivities which you and your friends find popular. I proceed through that passage to meet anxiety’s face and let go of responsibility. Yet, I still find myself coarsed in the verses to which plead a dryness of the mouth and a sting to the eyes.”

She sits down next to him, intrigued by his message, like a peasant to a prophet. “I know you know what I do in my spare time on the weekends decay. You see me lead off with another shadow to the room upstairs to be tossed about like a rag doll. Though you sit here with other intentions, one that seems less violent and more cured.” He situates himself to find her gaze, “There is nothing here for me to pick off from, nothing is ripe here, all rotten hearts in the pot that boils with liquored breath.”

Both pause in a silence less awkward than a normal conversation amongst two unfastened spirits. He stands up and lift her with the slight of a hand to rise with, “ I’ll show you the distance you may go in this mess of a house.” She follows him to the opposite corner, far from the isle of the kitchen. On the isle, a masquerade of cups filled half way and a group of peers surrounds the cult of games.

“This is the pot in which we melt, sickened stories of false love, where passion does not derive from the mind or heart but that of beastly intention. I do not succumb to any such actions, I do not score you or your friends to later hope that an STD has not been contracted, I want your body, but the mind is much more troubled than when first inspected, and all your worries—and mine too, are bashed in by the scope of substance to which we huddle to in hopes of relief, but in my experience, there is no such thing as salvation in this mess of a party. A mere distraction maybe, but a difference comes round once you leave or wake up away from this house. No relief, just the same piles of worries and troubles that exceed the limit.”

Her recollection of his ideals cemented in her mind, she had been lost in the depths of this ocean for too long.

This boy steps away, and offers his hand in mutual accomplishment, she reaches out to him to bid farewell, he responds back, “Have a safe night.” She sits there watching his depart from a far, listing the verses he spun to her in that moments time. So it is still lost, that emptiness in her touch.