Blood On The Base
have you ever lusted over a piece of stone? Have you fallen to your knees for the unbearable glory of shapes carved from rock?
for her, the sharp lines and corners are like razors that cut deeply into her soft white skin… but she wants the pain. she wants the pain that comes from this piece of stone, this… thing… that on its own is ugly, rough and dirty.
the stark contrast of her fresh cherry blood on pale skin imitates rich, deep black veins coursing through white marble columns.
this cold, heartless, unwavering masterpiece comforts her, as the warmth of her hand leaves bloodied palm prints dripping, dripping, dripping down to the Doric base block.
she’s not sure why she feels so safe next to this thing. in fact, she would swear to you that she hates it. she hates it’s existence and wants to see it destroyed. she has tried to destroy it. she has tried to beat it. it won’t budge, it won’t stain, it won’t sway. and its strength is why she wants it.
she imagines the men who built it. who took the chisel and hammer to the ugly and turned it beautiful. the dirty, sweaty, gross men who dedicated their lives to the construction of immortality. but those men are long gone…
tears fall and mix with blood as she beats against it. harder. harder. destory it. her pounding fists begin to swell and bruise as a concoction of sodium and plasma create a whirlpool of love and pain on the edge of the tower.
she stares upwards and the subtle curvature of the column… curvature that even though tall and unreachable somehow wraps its arms around leaving her, cradled amongst a distant sorrow from someone she’ll never meet.
she remembers why she hates it. she’s never met a man who can replicate this feeling. they always compliment her or end up crying over something. she has never experienced raw strength and power like she has now, at the base of the column.
A lifeless work of masons and laborers…heartless, cold, and unaware of its own intimidating beauty. content in its state, not to prove anything or anyone, but to be strong, holding up the weight of the world.
she hates that she can’t beat it. that it will be there long after she’s gone. that she can try and try to hurt it or bring it down… but it’s still there for her: waiting… waiting for her to come back.
—
G.W.