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Marie Love Jan 2018
Are you willing to love her naked? When she is most vulnerable, hands on her knees, yelling lord please. are you willing to break down her wall, see what’s on those floors? Asking herself are you going to love me, if i stood here naked? Trusting herself with you, she’s trying to find some closure, you hold on to her a little closer, she’s feeling the exposure. Naked.
Zero Nine Jul 2017
Just as a heads up to any of you readers it may concern, I'm abandoning both projects in the header. The Drama of Miriam Marcus is something you may see pop up again, either in its original form, or perhaps as an entirely different project.

Dark Spells was a project born out of the recurrence of a common, deep depressive state that finds me time and time again, one you may notice without my saying. While I often romanticize themes of depression, anxiety, paranoia, self-loathing, and self-destruction, I must point out that I do so because I'm bound to these feelings regardless of stagnation, regardless of agitation. I romanticize my illness simply as a means to survive, as a means to still feel fulfilled as a human despite the haunting emptiness.

That said, recent developments in my personal life have unchained me suddenly, and I'm overwhelmed with the need to embrace the misplaced. Concepts like happiness, curiosity, and wonder are once again nearly tangible. As such, a project as thematically troubling as Dark Spells is not currently a possibility.

Yo thx for reading. ****'s about to get a little lighter, a little softer, a little warmer. I succcc.
Zero Nine Jul 2017
She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.

She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.

The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.

She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.

"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"

I was doing you a favor.

"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "

Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.

"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."

Calm down, okay? Please?

"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a ****, that's my ******* business, Asgar. "

And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.

When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***.

And drugs. Drugs, too.
Zero Nine Apr 2017
Miriam Marcus struggles up out of bed. She's caught up in blankets and clothing, stuck with a foot in the sheets. Coffee smell. Pungent, slightly sweet, it pulls her by her shoulders, with its body to the door. Then, sharp and deep, scents of a trashcan floating chicken in its own juice punch her in the nose. In the hall, lights flicker. In front, on the couches, bodies pile up, pile over the room. Get caffeine. Dodge the food spoiling happy on tables, counters, and do what you do as you do. Every day.

What's wrong?
Short. Succinct. Acute.
I never even wanted
this picture.
(You did!)
First smell is a fragrance
soft to my nose.
(Sour cream.)
Will I be number 6 in
this two bedroom
forever? Will I
lose my job?
What's wrong?
Short. Succinct. Acute.
I never even wanted
this picture.
(You did!)

You wanted this medication,
baby. You can't tell me different,
though you could try. *****,
why you gonna waste my time?
I'm waiting for you, waiting
for you to catch up. While you
play twenties in your thirties
I urge your image using only
raw throated screams, always
unseen behind your head in
floating, incorporeal code!
And it kills that I can't know
(Pour coffee.)
if she'll catch up!
(Ignore it.)
I'll chew her heart into chunks,
(Work day.)
just let me!
I'll eviscerate her, devour her
and **** her out
into a self made five mile hole
in the lonely woods!
Just let me.

— The End —