Not How the Story Goes

…And so Cinderella, no longer able to sing like the wild birds whose company she preferred, no longer able to let down her hair, wildly afraid of the beast she was supposed to have fallen in love with and frustrated in her realisation that the waking world could never meet the expectations built up in her hundred years of beauteous slumber – no matter how handsome the prince whose kiss had awoken her – took James Bond’s revolver, pressed the cold steel of the barrel hard against the delicate flesh beneath her chin and threw back her head, her glorious blood-red curls shining in the moonlight as they tumbled down her back.

Do you believe in God? written on the bullet; and Cassie Pulled the Trigger.

~xx~

La Mariposa de la Muerte

(Papillon-devil, Sorcière-noire…)

.

My anger right now,

could burn down a small city.

(To borrow an image from another).

By way of a little constructive self-harm for the purpose of diffusing such rage,

I want a miniature (and reworked – would have to be a little less intricate) version of this sketch I did a while ago, tattoo’d on me. Very soon.

That’s an Emperor moth.

Because butterflies are so cliché, but moths, being nocturnal and helplessly drawn to the bright lights that blind them and the flames that burn them…

yeah.

(‘La Mariposa de la Muerte’ is the Spanish name for the Black Witch Moth - the one from Silence of the Lambs. While I like the idea of a butterfly of death, I’m not sure I want one on me. Besides, this one’s prettier).

Now to decide where to have it, and who to ask to do it.

I’m thinking ankle.

It’s gonna hurt.

I’m already feeling better.

: )

~xx~