Spun

i.
Living is nice when you’re spun like a kite…

Somewhere beyond the dawn, where opaline skies bite down on the tops of autumn forests, we are flying. Strapped to diamond wings, we spiral round and around, cutting our twin silhouettes into the blue. Down below, amidst the kaleidoscope of burning branches, someone must be pulling the strings, but this does not concern us. Up here, temporarily, the air gushing into our lungs and hitting the base of our spines tastes of freedom. Arms outstretched, eyes wide, our bone crosses kiss the clouds.

Holding hands, our smiles are seamless: we are locked in harmony. Up here, for once, tears are meaningless, and we can bear to look down at our distant world unveiled; ablaze: blurred and flushed by our bleary-eyed minds borne from mornings spent sleeping in and praying for release. The colours are swimming together and nothing makes sense, but we know this and somehow this makes everything alright. The breeze rippling our cut-paper wings and tickling our skin seeps through our pores and steals into our blood like a narcotic.

Carefree, lightheaded, we fly free ~
~ And I melt into you.

ii.
Life is real when you’re dreaming…

Hello, sister. I know you’ve been waiting for this, a vis-à-vis that seems as if it’s fallen out of a dream sequence, so I’ll waste no time on introductions. I think we both know who I am.

I live inside. Sometimes you can feel me stirring, lodged between your birdcage ribs and your knotted spine; a murmur on your heart. I’m the creature within that you sometimes sense waking, stretching out, breathing-in your blood. That’s when I’m not up here, of course; airborne. I’m like a ghost, you see; a lucid poltergeist in the form of a child. This whole skin and bone thing - my hand in yours - it’s just a trick of the mind.

Magic? Don’t be silly, such things don’t exist. Bringing you up here was hardly difficult, especially after you came so close to cutting yourself lose. After all, broken dolls float to the top of the bowl, and learning to fly is easy when you’re used to drowning. You weren’t putting up much of a fight – what with your turgid nightmares and your tepid screams, I almost felt sorry for you.

Believe me, I want to help you. And as I am she and you are me, helping myself means I’m helping you, right? I’m your sweet avenger, righting your wrongs by helping myself to the pieces of you that fell out of place long ago.

Sister, I strung you up to save you.

It’s not my fault that the strings are starting to fray.

iii.
Life’s a dream when you’re reeling…

And now I see you for what you really are: rapscallion smile sewn jagged across my likeness, coalstone eyes sunk into the shell of my soul. Your masquerade is obscene and you know it: built up out of all those broken pieces of me, no wonder you’re rotten to the core. I was never able to escape my shadow, and now I know why. You were clinging on, tooth and nail, the whole time.

Oh sister, my hollow-hearted double, you never taught me to fly - only to hang, limp, like a marionette with tangled strings. Sister, you helped me thread my own noose, and built me my own cross to bear. But sister (nails digging in tight, drawing blood), you’re forgetting that if I am you and you are me, then we are one together. We’re spun, spit sisters interlaced by mutual blood and memories. And some webs are stronger than string.

- With a snap we fall into the sunset
still spinning…

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Another prose-poem, this time inspired by (and containing lyrics from) the song 'Spun' by Babes in Toyland. I'm not too thrilled with how this turned out (especially part iii), so this may undergo further editing post-upload. And of course, any suggestions/constructive-criticisms are more than welcome!