draco talks i

(narrator: draco malfoy)
warnings: language
~

Is it too late to take it all back?

To erase that part of the past and redo it all over again? Are my memories and imagination, all that’s been left from you? Why now? Why doesn’t it stop? Why can’t you just get out of my fucking head?

I’ll never admit how much I miss you. How much you make me crumble and burn from the inside, every time I see that smile – the smile of indifference. It’s confusing. It thorns me, but at the same time, makes me want to just push you against the fucking wall, and kiss it away. Kiss you so hard and brutal, it will make you bleed. Punishment. I hate you for the things you make me feel (and think). I hate you for the rejection and the broken promises. Is it really too late to take it all back? Why can’t we go back? Why can’t you let me have you?

For once, in this fucking existence, I was ready to give you what I couldn’t or wanted to give to anyone. I was ready to let down my barriers and cry myself in you. My cocky smirk and attitude, were beginning to fade against that goofy grin of yours. What made you so special? What made YOU so fucking delicious? Of all the humans, it had to be you – the most deprecating person I have ever met! The most disgusting, foul, annoying creature ever to cross my path. And I wanted you. So badly. And what did you do? You played with fire, little girl. And you got burned.

The only thing worth watching from this little humiliation was your downfall. Your beautiful downfall. The look on your face – my vengeance. The tears on your cheeks – my vengeance. The shame in your eyes – my vengeance. And my favorite? The regret! Oh, you regret it so much, it makes me sick! Sick to the very core, to just have you there, almost begging me to see you. How you work yourself up, just to catch a glance of my attention. How you fall and break for me, and still manage to come back, searching for the thing you once had and rejected.

Is it too late to take it all back? To go back? Back to me wanting you?

Those moments, locked up in that pesky little head of yours… are they still there? The touches and soft words – things you never expected me to do to you – are they still making you ache? For me? Those silent pleads with my eyes. Those barriers around my body, completely down, wanting you to just comfort me and give me something I wanted, are they still making you look at me differently? All those times I broke for you… Disgusting.

Is it too late to take it all back? To go back? Back to me wanting you? You are nothing little girl. You are sad. “Is it too late to take it all back?”

Yes. Burn.
~


(06/06/08 – again with the irony of the number 6. the first time i entered draco’s mind! it was so much fun!)

the kiss (part 3)

part 1
part 2

(characters: tekain & halee)
warnings: language; mild sexual situation
~

Halee was starting to get terrified. He was right. She didn’t know him; didn’t know what he was capable of. But she knew, deep down, what he felt when they were near each other, a couple of moments back. She had felt it herself. As that thought crossed her mind, she gathered her remaining courage and looked up at him – her determination evident in her features. She was not that weak.

“Why are you running? Why can’t you just let yourself feel it?”

That took Tekain by surprise. What? His brow frowned. Her earlier frighten expression was replaced by resolving one. And something else, he couldn’t quite catch. It was that something else that was bothering, because it was that, that was fueling her new found willpower. She was fighting with him. Again. He studied her face, deep in concentration, trying to find the thing he was missing. When;

… she moved. Uncomfortable. Between his body and the wall. Was he too close? It was a simple movement, but of flash of uneasiness passed through her eyes. But now he knew. And he grinned. And it was her turn to frown.

He removed the hand from her chin and the other that was gripping her arms above her head. He came to place each one, beside her head. There she was, trapped again. But she kept her act up, the determination filling her eyes again. She wouldn’t let him win. He wouldn’t win, not this time. The grin was still there, as he lowered his head to the side of her face; her cheek burning his own.

Such soft skin.

“What do you know, about feel?” husky voice. Again. Making her cringe. Again.

Halee knew now there was no escape. Her earlier determination gone. He was playing with her again. He was winning again. And she was letting him.

“Tell me, Halee… how can I, feel it?” he got closer to her. His body got closer to her own; pressing into her. He suppressed a groan when he felt that heat again – her heat. But for him to play this game, he had to be in control of her and himself. He wished he could see her face. Her sweet, little face flushing up. She was definitely playing with fire.

“Can you?” he asked again, head still at the side of hears, cheek caressing cheek; cold breath on her ear.

“Can I, what?” she rasped, trying to steady her voice. Oh God, this was just too much. The wall was burning up. The room was burning up. She was on fire.

“Feel it?” he rolled his hips against hers and she gasped. Loudly. He smirked against a face. He knew she had felt it. Fuck, he was getting so hard. He let the bulge of his pants hit her thigh again. Suggestive. She didn’t move; her tense form not daring to move.

Halee was completely at loss. Was this what he was capable of? Could he actually go any farther than this? She should be disgusted at his bold behavior. She should be punching and slapping. Not let herself be trapped.

And why was it so hot in here? Why wasn’t she doing those things? Why was she actually enjoying being pressed against the wall; the feel of his body on hers. Feeling him move against her. His breath, his touch. Her vision was blurred, her head spinning. She felt him smirk at her face. He was winning. She was letting him win.

She heard something move, making her tense more if possible. A hand. A hand was on her again. On her waist. It was moving. Moving down, to the hem of her shirt. “Breathe Halee, breathe.” She kept telling herself. She wanted to close her eyes, but she didn’t dare.

The hand was moving again. Up. It was under her shirt. The cool hand was on her burning skin. She took a peak at him. His head was still bent down, near her neck. She couldn’t figure out his expression. His other hand was still by her head.

Halee tried to calm herself; the hand on her skin stopping at her flat stomach. Was he doing that on purpose? She tore her gaze from his face, looking at the dark, wooden wall in front of her. Her eyes searched it. Searched for everything, anything, to make her forget the hand that was under her shirt, touching her. Her arms where firmly placed on the wall, her fingers almost digging through the wood. The hand still hadn’t move. Tekain was completely still, like a statue. “Giving up, maybe?” seeing that she wasn’t reacting.

She was taking small breaths, not wanting to alarm him or give him anything proof that she was actually, terrified. She tried closing her eyes, for a few seconds.

Wrong move.

The hand moved again, up. And up. Rib cage now. Her eyes popped open. Why the fuck wasn’t she stopping him? It was moving up. It reached the end of her bra. Now she couldn’t fake it. Shaking. She started to shake. But the hand didn’t stop. It continued up and up. Fingertips. Light fingertips, on her bra-covered breast. Then a kiss, on her neck. Then teeth, scrapping her skin. His fingers continued the soft touching, not getting close enough to try and feel the skin.

“Tell me, Halee.” velvet voice against her neck “Can you feel it?”

Palm down. It took all of her self control, not to moan. She wouldn’t let him win. She couldn’t.

His hand was fully covering her right breast. He was smiling again. The hand gave it a gentle squeeze as its thumb caressed it up and down. It came to stop at her nipple, which of course, was already pebbled. He rolled his thumb against it and this time he got a reaction. Halee unconsciously rubbed her thighs together. The smile turned into his trademark smirk. “I’ll win Halee”.
(…)
~

(decided to post the 3rd part. i remembering being embarrassed when writing this, my perverted mind taking over. now, not so much. still more to come!)

a loss

(narrator: unknown)
~

she’s an empty bottle of water, where the tears never fill the plastic space. an aching heart graces her chest but

she hides it under her comfy jacket, made by her friends embraces.

her uneasy steps, tremble with nervous anxiety as she follows the coffin, to where everything her life held was going to be buried. she stumbles upon a broken mother and quivers in shame:

she couldn’t control it all.

she reaches the sinister gates as two sisters hold each others hands, catching the lack of breath, where tears still flooded.

she couldn’t really tell if she still had any lungs.

she’s trying to brave her lack of sorrow away, while unknown eyes cry the loss of what meant her the world. the wooden box is being put under the ground.

she imagines how the earth must be cold and shivers.

her eyes close as the ground swallows a great part of her soul;

body;

heart;

and

she reaches for the sky and promises (her dad) she will take care of the several frames of love he left behind.

~


(25/05/09 – for a friend of mine, for who i have deep respect and amazement. be strong.)

avó, volta

(narrador: eu – laura)
~

gostava que voltasses para mim,
para junto do meu abraço escasso,
cujos braços raramente andavam em
teu redor.

era bom que voltasses e
reemergisses da altura da terra seca na
qual te puseram, sob o olhar
esquecido dos teus queridos.

essa mesma terra, a mesma
terra em que sepultaram os corpos
antes de ti encheu-se de poeira molhada;
uma chuva ácida que nos
derreteu as lágrimas e queimou as palavras.

sucumbiu o teu corpo já tão
débil e afastou-te das míseras linhas de
sorrisos quentes e da falta da palavra

amo-te.

recordo-te agora na dor da tua ausência, e
na falta que nunca fizeste, sabendo que
raramente sentias os meus braços no teu corpo
e o sentimento verdadeiro nos meus olhos.

gostava que voltasses para mim,
avó.
~

25/05/09 – inspirado pela morte recente de um pai de uma amiga minha. o meu primeiro poema em quase dois meses.

not quite a drug

(ouvir ao som de Death Note by Yoshihisa Hirano e Hideki Taniuchi)

Tenho um certa tendência para masoquismo.

Não.
Não fantasio com correntes e com chicotes, nem com coisas do género. Quero dizer, que tenho uma certa tendência por masoquismo mental. Não o sei pôr de outra maneira.

Passo a explicar.

A vida é feita de inconsistências.

Mudanças.

Mudanças estúpidas.

Inconsistências chatas.

E por vezes, tanta mudança e inconsistência é capaz de criar em nós, um ciclo vicioso de melancolia. O que me deixa, extremamente angustiada. Pois tudo muda. E toda a gente quer tudo em troco de nada. Eu quero tudo. E quando me sinto confortável com variadas situações, presenças, rotinas, o tempo corre. E quando reparo, as situações não se repetem, as presenças desaparecem e as rotinas modificam-se.

Não gosto desta inconsistência.

Pode-se até dizer que não sei lidar com ela e talvez nunca saberei.

Afecta-me.

Destrói-me.

E isto traz-me de volta ao assunto do meu suposto masoquismo. Porque, para minha felicidade, há sempre algo, por mais pequeno que seja, que é consistente.

É consistente.

Não muda.

E é uma das únicas coisas, que, apenas que seja só por uns meros segundos, me retira todo aquele mar de pensamentos da cabeça. Todo o mar de mudança. Cada mais me vejo a ansiar por esses meros segundos. O meu dia não ficaria completo sem essa consistência. O meu espírito não aliviaria um pouco da sua dor sem o momento, em que fica tudo em branco.

O problema, é que esses segundos, esses meros segundos, são masoquistas. Pois não anseio por palavras carinhosas. Abraços tórridos. Sorrisos amigáveis. Palavras amorosas. Anseio por aquilo que ele é.

Duro.

Cruel.

Anseio pelas palavras insultuosas. Pelo olhar de desgosto. Porque é a única coisa que não muda.

Não há um dia em que não oiça o habitual insulto. Um dia em que não olhe para os mesmo olhos desgostosos.

E gosto.

Adoro.

Porque tudo isso me faz esquecer, momentariamente, a tal inconsistência que tal odeio. Insultos aos quais tento responder com gosto. Olhares aos quais tento armar uma de superior. Ouvir aquela doce amargura na sua voz. Aquele previsível momento.

Sou masoquista, porque aquelas palavras que tanto odeio e magoam, são como música para os meus ouvidos. Não mudam. Não espero que nunca mudem. Aquele fervor de estar perto daquela música. Quase me faz sorrir e no entanto, não há razões para isso.

Apercebo-me agora que é um pouco palerma.

Irracional, até.

E é muito estúpido da minha parte ficar dependente de alguém que odeio com paixão ardente. Pois imaginava-me sempre a precisar alguém que me retribuísse tal necessidade. E isto… isto é simplesmente ridículo. E muito complexo.

Amedronta-me.

Confunde-me.

Infelizmente, isto não se tornou evidente quando se deveria ter tornado, porque, pessoalmente, não me importa muito. Não interessa. Não quero saber. Não me importa que ninguém compreenda a minha necessidade. Não me importa que viva nesta ilusão para sempre. Preciso da música. Preciso de o ver. Nada mais interessa.

Torna-se cada vez menos importante ignorar este facto. Facto de estar tão dependente de tais momentos. De tal pessoa. Pessoa que não merece nem um-sétimo do meu pensamento. Atenção. Mas é consistente. É normal. É previsível. É tudo aquilo que faz com que eu não dê em louca. Não muda, pois sei que não muda.

Como cheguei a isto?

Como cheguei ao ponto, de a sua crueldade fazer com a minha cabeça grite de prazer?

Como comecei a gostar de dor?

Como e porquê?

O quando não interessa.

Como cheguei ao ponto de estar sempre à espera do habitual comentário idiota? De sentir algo? Posso-lhe chamar droga. Poderia estar a achar isto muito perturbador, mas na realidade, pouco ou nada importa.

Tudo o que quero é ele e a sua crueldade.

Consome todos os pensamentos racionais que tenho. Todo o que sinto. Todas as imagens arquivadas no meu cérebro são imagens dele. Nada mais. Apenas, nada mais.

A sua crueldade é tudo o que eu quero.

(baseado na fanfic Not quite a Drug por, xylitol)
~


(08/12/07 – sim. é mesmo de 2007. e já me tinha esquecido deste texto – decidi recordar. é sempre bom.)