***
Dancing in a room drenched in greed and lust for power, there is no corner to hide. In this room, each woman is ironically left bare, the remnants of velvets and silks truly hiding no aspect, and no curve. At the end, we are fallen, but aligned with the passions and hypocrisies of the men that hold gold at their fingertips. We become slaves, drawn to Midas’s touch, not out of will, but out of necessity.
We become exposed, and we do not bear flawless skin, but rather, our scars hold us. Our scars allow us to be drawn in towards the flame, like pretty little moths.
We lower our gazes, and the cold stainless floor sneers at us, shaming us, for we are not so pure. It is better than daring to look up. The ceilings are adorned with chandeliers, spoils of the wars between them and her. A taunt with which they like to carve pretty little statues we must admire. Ruthless obligations and rules we must adhere to for we lost every single battle.
All the bullets that sunk into the skin of our mothers; the screams that echoed into the battlefields by our sisters; the intricate forms of death our daughters had to face; they all fade out like a flickering candle in a room where a fire burnt. You don’t notice the candle has left ever. Eyes are only ever drawn to the warmth of the fireplace. We all crave warmth until we realise what it means to burn.
And the dance floor is hoarded, each and every corner wallowing in the gilded pockets, gliding with each gluttonous stride on that God forsaken floor - polished and marbled. A sparkle; in their eyes. And those smiles. So devoid of warmth. Yet there is no fear - as their calloused hands grapple every side and angle. Only tightly pursed lips and pale cheeks seeping through their taught skin. Because we must accept. Glorify. Beg. At each glance we strangle those chords in our throats and choke on the spikes of our own fury. And a seething heart is so dangerous to a man. And a bleeding heart is oh so beautiful to a man…
For chandeliers hang like dignity on the noose. And the crystals glistening as they drop from our eyes and shatter against the flames of hell. And somehow it will always be a hand that hangs the chandelier. A hand that hangs the rope. It tightens as the weight of the unspoken whispers sink beneath the ground and we watch the air of hope crawl out of our mouths and into a man’s breath.
We must pretend we can’t see the chandeliers for they are the manifestation of all we failed to break away from. Of what we could not flee from. A net from which the holes are too tight to fight through but we still see the eddying figure of us. She does not wait. She cannot wait. She drags herself along into a moor of black.
***
Sometimes, I am made to align myself with the rhythms of the keys and the cello long enough that my limbs become weary and the urge to collapse begins to grope me. I wonder whether Beethoven and Mozart knew how torturous the sound of their melodies is in my ears. Do they revel in the aches of my limbs?
Each night, the crimson wine allows me to drown in hallucinations. In illusions that I am moving of my own will when I am but such: created from rags, adorned with stitches. Not the Persian rugs across their bedroom floor. Or the thin thread that lines its seams.
I am worthless.
We are the joy of a night, and when the day comes, we drag ourselves from the dead just to relive the cycle. Before the balls, we sit and we paint the canvas of our face into perfections made from mercury and crushed rose petals. Toxicity and ashen perfections. Heave on the clothes from their last night’s sins. Plaster a fiery red on our lips and nail the sides upright. The joke is me.
But then again, he doesn’t like burgundy kisses on nights where he’s had too much to drink. His woes far outweigh his patience and I become the perfect chandelier to crack. He forces me to rub away this colour, and sometimes, my lips are too pale. He craves extravagance. And I despise his want. Loathe his needs.
I curl my brunette hair, unified in an act with all women at the vanity, as we prepare ourselves for the upcoming trial. Sometimes, we engage in the anguish long enough till the grief coats our bodies and the pain drenches our hearts. Constantly, we fear the next chance of being paraded for we are like the deer admired by the hunter before he strikes the arrow deep into our flesh. We are the chandelier in the centre, and we inevitably fall.
Riya and Lishyx
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