Turned Down

       So tell me how, and what to say. Is it for you, or mine to keep? I'll take a sip, a glass of wine, and see how it feels for the coolness swirling down the passages of tickled flesh within my throat, and the jagged glass smashing, stabbing, ripping open the white skin and letting me fall back into a coma, an enchanted sleep for me to rest deep in the waves of the enchanted realms no one could open the doors to.
       Hold up a finger; let me lick the blood dripping from its tip, its sharp, sweet, tangy, bitter, boiling scream of life touching my tongue! Letting my tongue intricately dance with the rough edges, the soft roundness, the shell for a soul. Wrap it around my tongue, kiss it, suck it like a babe with a pacifier, and fall back to let my tears submit and sink to the hardness of the bed, pondering of how it is for a sleeping comatose beauty, if she dreams and frolic through a fantasy realm as wasted time slips by her, aging her without living company.
       She sees her heart, her soul, her mind, her efforts, wonderfully, excruciatingly, elegantly arranged and organized upon twirling spheres of harmony that she had so carefully, so lovingly crafted with the baring of her soul.
       They snap.
       They shatter.
       Their pages fly everywhere, cats bouncing upon a bird whose feathers fly recklessly and messily in horrifying, screaming, bursting terror.
       They bury her. She was rejected, turned down.