Ian,
Red lifts gently the arms of girlhood for sacrifice. From the throes of virginity to the knowledge that there is magic in a dead pussy, she lifts her arms and executes a perfect turn, the ballerina in a music box rotating gently on carefully tied boots that are secured to her feet because when she isn't dancing for them, she is running from them. Running until the gray gives out, and heaving fire in her lungs, the world burns down as she claws her way to the black chasms of submission. The fox wakes and runs from the wolf. The fox wakes and runs from the wolf. The fox wakes that runs from the wolf. The fox walks that wakes from the wolf.
Violet watches, his eyes low, his smile fading on his lips. He watches the world for the Livid scars of every girl's passing apathy into rage. He watches because no one gives a shit. He watches because he's the one, somehow, and can prove it, errantly and in love. Splintering to some low animal, he waits in an empty boxcar. I'm fucking smart enough. Don't, Vincent. I'm fucking smart enough to the know the different between apathy and rage. I could count the measures, between one and the other if I fucking WANTED to. Don't, Vincent. Just get your God damn feet outta my lap, Rudy.
Orange adores a movie star in her girlish Southern charm. Hey do y'all think Clyde Barrow likes a blonde at all? I got this here peroxide and he suuuuure looks mighty interested even in the likes of me. He's a real cultural gentleman, don't you think, Bonnie? He's sure got class. You're sure too glamorous for the likes of me. She tugs the rags in her hair that roll it to soft Veronica Lake waves and giggles while we fall to possession, immorality, and desire. That could be pretty fun. That could be pretty dangerous. In the deepest animal sense, she becomes genderless and spiteful, tight-shouldered and squinted eyes. That's mine. Leave me alone.
Green waits for orders and graduates between total egolessness and a Private named Michael smooth enough to be an angel. Where it meets in purity is a concept I share with my twin brother named Caroline; white shirts and tags jangling with short dragon-white hair. Our hands, never resting, wait for orders. Idleness breeds evil. The dragon at the lowest point is green, the nameless thing, servant of a cause, and the keeper of all my religion.
Yellow begins as a soul, unending and unable to be harmed. It takes the form of a fox and a girl and a boy often muddy and full of mischief. She races down long trails of me to meet you, crying Matthew, I made you a umbrella. You're a fox like me, Bonnie says. Play with me. She degrades by increments of misunderstanding and self-preservation to a Canary that sings in the dark of the mines and a clown that is ever-convinced of the comedy of her lover leaving her for a ridiculous chorus girl. The base of it is sarcasm, the final resting place of innocence. When all else fails, it might, at least, someday, be funny.
Blue...tears plastic with teeth and shines beneath in shattered waves of come and see, lost by him, open this for me. In gentle smile or a soft hand touched to say "I was dead without you." Running fast fingers through hair I lost stuffed in dustbins that was gold and blonde and white and red and any color but that which would always change and be denied by the collateral inclination I have to shun myself. Justified will kill a poet, did you know that? I was so sick for you, so wide-eyed and racing pulse for you, I've lost all my voracity without you, I would be dead without you, my brother, my love, where have you been? Isn't any poem a love poem? Yours begins like this: In the murder of my heart by an instrument of artistry, I bend and suck clean from our knees embers burning and the land follows. Find me and follow me. Find me and follow me. You make me an animal. I want the taste of your dragon name.
Silver is a musician of air and thought. She cries when I leave you, for all the things I can't name when I'm with you. Every morning, I've cried. She cries, and lightens the colors around her to something human.
Black is an animal, tied feathers and dragon scales pulling hard on all things to bring them to their true natures. Her voice is soft and fast. We're all animals, Matthew, didn't you know? I'm not a good dancer, but you would dance with me.
The color of my hair is named Eve.
-Annik
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