Lipsick and fucked.

[greedy fly]

<center>i hold an image of the ashtray girl
as the cigarette burns on my chest
i wrote a poem to describe her world
that put our friendship to the test.</center>


name: quinn rosalin.
age: 25.
sign: libra.
from: arizona.
status: single.
preference: bisexual.
friends: solomon, cherrie, jim, scotch.
occupation: cherrie's assistant/tattoo artist/cartooning. and by night--working at the red room, a vintage 1920's-like club. bartending flapper.

appearance: 5'7" and a hundred and ten pounds (like pro-ana--only not); quinn was a aphrodite's clone, hair strummed from pale gold to a rusted brown, butchered tom-boyishly due to years of wrung dreadlocks. pillow-pale petals, budded for kisses and a thousand other wicked things, crystallized (lachrymose) bruise-bloodied blue eyes and a figurine to die for. bra-less, band-aids, arm-noosing leather bands, ripped jeans and black wifebeaters. behind her betty bangs and brown-sugary, grooved brows .. her animation was slaughtered.

tattoos: dragon on left bicep (own design) the letters 'sb' inside her wrist, dragon on lower back (own design), "quod me nutrit me destruit" latin on lower abdomen/stomach ("that which feeds me also destroys me") paired with a thick black cross, blue window on lower back, a tennessee williams quote on left inside forearm: "a prayer for the wild at heart cept in cages," the chinese symbol for death on her shoulder, roman numeral XIII on the back of her left arm, and a traditional khmer motif - five vertical rows of ancient khmer script on upper left shoulderblade (is said to ward off bad luck.)



quinn:
is an ex-whore
is an ex-junkie
is still a junkie
can't confront her emotions
hates herself sometimes
likes girls more than boys
misses her ex-boyfriend
misses her ex-girlfriend
is tired of it all
hates dresses
likes boots
hates bras
cigarettes & candy
is scared to be kicked out in the morning.
would sell her soul for it-- for someone to love her.

"she was the kind most guys couldn't afford and so when they settled elsewhere, she was left thinking that she wasn't worth two shits when really she was just out of everyone's reach. quinn was a star; intangible. and until she went bad and began falling, no one was ever going to be able to touch her the way she wanted to be touched."

(I'm looking for someone to play with her. Boy or a girl, it doesn't matter! I just want to play her! IM me on ashtraygirl.)

<font color="#060101" size="1">[ August 25, 2004 07:17 PM: Message edited by: so pass? ]</font>

[greedy fly]

"What's this?!" The evidence was crackled in innocent red wrapping paper, pasted on a side panel in the rear of the parlor, beyond curtained opacity. Miss Burns unfurled an accusatory finger at the presence, giddily waltzing over to admire the six candles, even casually flaring for a subtle hint of its' fragrance.
"Oh," Quinn glanced up from her seat, carefully repackaging an overstock of earrings. "Nothing." She felt something gnarling in the lining of her stomach-- this was going to turn into kindergarten, and she was going to be taunted until the name stumbled from a bubblegum tongue.
"Oh, it looks like something. Look, it even has your name in it. In nice handwriting. Do you have a girlfriend?!" Singsonged in pretty animation, from scarlet-choked lips.

" ..uhno."

"A boyfriend?"

"..uhno."

"Oh! I know who it is!"

"No, really, you don't, it's from my fr--"

"It's from SOLOMON!"

"Yeah, Sol... "

"No, because he wou--he doesn't know the address to the store--it was--that guy! The one with the hair."

"Oh, yeah, him," Quinn sardonically rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but to break out into a grin at her childish curiosity.

"Elijah! You said his name was Elijah!"

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Did he buy you that?"

"---Hey.. wanna hear the funniest thing? I ran into Gray at the bar yesterday, and he bit my finger ...."

[greedy fly]

"Wot's wrong?" His fret-bruised fingers skated on a snowcapped shoulder, bare of fabric, his dark eyes swollen and intangibly exuberant with concern.

Quinn ruggedly shook her shoulder and his hand immediately waltzed off the cliff, and he held both up in defensive protest. "Knock it off."

Solomon seemed shocked, but just retreated back into six month linen again-- her coldness wasn't as contagious as she would have liked it to be. "..alright..."

Then silence---an art they had never quite mastered.

"Quinn?"

"What?"

"Do yew feel bad?"

"No."

"I want yew to know that when we--"

"Solomon, I know."

"I would never use yew."

"I know."

"Then why are yew so upset?"

"I'm not upset."

"I love yew."

"Yeah, ever since Jude left, right?"

He sharply swerved his body to the side, tension wrung with a spell of dazed anger, facing back-to-back (even though she was formally sketched in sitting.)

"That's such shit, Quinn. Yew know ..yew fucking know that before Jude even came in the picture all I wanted was for yew to pay attention to me."

"But as soon as he came in the picture?"

The Brit ripped himself to half-mast, supported on the heels of his butterspread palms.

"I can't believe you're even talking about this! He's gone now!"

"But you were so fucking quick to leave me behind."

"Quinn--" he was pleading with her now, trying to coax her moodswings--he honestly preferred her tepid and luke warm to ice-cold. "Quinn, yew never even gave me a fucking chance before. Yew didn't want anything to do with me. We all knew wot yew wanted me for." When he was nineteen.

Solomon pushed himself off of her mattress, and fought into the legs of his worn jeans, fleeing like a fugitive from her lemonade-shaded apartment (rich with a strange blur of sunlight.)

He left her alone to atone by herself. And whenever she was alone, she cried.

[greedy fly]

The lazy drawl of his lids distorted from no lines to a million squinted wrinkles when he finally shut his eyes so tightly that his lashes threatened to scrape rip marks down her necks plane. The fence that the lank of her legs made was violated by fists that tangled themselves in the fabric of her pants. His teeth were audibly chipping beneath the grind of molars and the severance of bicuspids. His spine was pressed against her belly, between her breasts ? and still, he managed to completely converge his face in the nook of her neck with his stubble itching at her clavicle. Doc?s gaped against the dirty tile so that he could push a gentle back n? fourth against her. He didn?t answer but he did mumblefuck a prayer. ?..jus? pretend like you mean it.? Incoherent psychobabble slipslid through his lips two seconds before his palm slithered against his forehead while nails crawled against his scalp. Fisting hands full of hair, he pulled until his pores ached, until his hair threatened to fall out and be prison fucked between his fingers. The violent twitch of his palm was lynching her leg while brusque, gut-tones cut at his lips. ?..fucking Christ. Fuck, fuck, fuc---fuck!? Un-noosing palm read the Braille of the floor, gripping the razor between his thumb and index. Adrenaline was an analgesic and cocaine was the anecdote. Painkillers tiptoed beneath the layer of sun-sweating scarfskin while he tilted his hand to his head and started to break skin with the jerk of wrists and a switchblade. It was a bout of mania because the water wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of Quinn?s heart behind him and the cocaine wasn't strong enough to cancel out the sound of her thudded trip-hammering stammer. And somewhere between both of those things, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone whispered their own suggestion: ..cut the fucking thing out and splatter kisses over its veins, that'll shut it up. "..shutthefuckup. quinn, make it shutthefuckup." He'd switch from his head to his tongue if need be. To think, the thing that spark-plugged this episode was a fit of truth from pixie-lips, setting fires around his ribcage .. you're gunna tell me you love me .. So what if he was, Quinn. What then? With blood dripping from a severed line in his forehead, he threw the razor at the floor, flung himself out of her maternal bondage, and stood up to crumble his chest over the bath's porcelain ledge. Fists fought with the faucet, fighting to turn the thing on more. Arguing with it to make it louder. And when he couldn't, he collapsed helpless over the edge -- ribs scraping against the tub while his head lay submerged beneath tapwater.
He ached (in a completely different way than she could ever imagine).

Fairytales unlatched:

this wasn't the first time a man had fallen apart on her; splitting his bravado's seams, bustling out through an exploding ribcage and mad heart. Solomon had done this, so many times, clawing at quiet nooses, Catholicism burning a singed hole in his chest.

"Pretend like I mean what?" Quinn tried her best to remain ascetic, baby-doll cradling him, pleading into his marigold stubble with silent whispers as he inaudibly conversed with something that only lurked inside of his mangled head. "What's wrong?" What's wrong with you? She knew insanity--she knew what it was like not to be able to control
(I maimed my wrists with barcode designs for you, but you didn't take notice, baby.)
herself. She knew what it was like to die in coded carwrecks in your head.

As soon as wars against his paralyzed imagination occurred with a sparkplug of violence, she cuffed his wrist, her jaw dropping, birthstone eyes bulging as her fucking arm trembled to try and withdraw and repress. "Fuck---" No bellowing, not even a notch higher of her voice, she merely chased after her bloody puppy (ragdoll) all the way to the tub. She kept her cool despite the fact he had just cut himself open (but it wouldn't inflict scar tissue) and that he was now drowning out inner-shells with tumbling bathwater. Behind him, she struggled to confine his stomach, and ripped him away from the water. Immediately, the half-bare girl pressed his scalp to loll against her breast--maternal, endearing--a fucking royal romance in thorn-pricked rose bushes that nobody knew about other than the two esoteric lovers involved. Swiping her palm over his forehead to dust away the hair, she made sure to clear away his blood.

".. now, stop it," she was speaking through clenched, violent teeth, and she held him still---choking. "Now, you fucking stop it. Do you hear? Just stop."

[greedy fly]

How did you know I'd waste lines on that? You know me well. I'll spare you. I actually used those lines a few months ago, I feel like I'm repeating myself. But, they weren't for you. If you really think you need poison in your ribcage, I'm going to be there to inject it. It won't feel good, I can promise you.

We're going to determine what size, but not through letters, I want to hear the words fumble from your tongue. It's hard to believe we're adults now, cuz we're both so childish with our feelings (according to Solomon, who I consulted for an opinion, I hope you don't mind) we're sitting here writing letters, evading the subject, biting on our fingernails. So here I come, whether you like it or not. I'll leave it in your slot, but I'll be back later. As soon as it's time for the candles to break out.

Just Quinn.

[greedy fly]

Oh Serena, I know that they're saying about you
They all say it's a resistance,
they all say that you didn't listen
well, they all have scars on their eyes,
its true night and day it's like a haunted replay,
I know it girl, I'll pray for you
Just remember it's not stronger than you,
Oh Serena, I know what they're saying about you
Tasted dead, but, I'll shed the night
Night irreverental, the time Carneleby is a bit of you
Time to feel it, time to fist it, time to lure it,
Time, no time to miss it
Time to lure this stone cold weather
Time alone and time away, I know what they
Oh Serena, I know the pain inside you
I know what they're saying about you and it's not true.
-- the distillers

[greedy fly]

Discouraged and lightweight she tussled the luggage overhead in a stowaway compartment, her long hair, bleeding sunsets like foliage and tangoing with the waspish thick of her waistline, wafting against her faded sundress (with the thin straps always hydroplaning down biceps.) It was nearing dusk, the sun dying in the tangerine and wine-pink lavish of the Arizona sky. The aging lady behind her observed through dreary eyes just how young the girl in front of her was. She was just barely waving goodbye to seventeen, ready to set foot in the open grave that was the world. There was a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, which the driver didn't even bother asking her to chuck out the window. Her carnation-pink nails lapped over one another in her lap, and as the bus began to buzz over street dust, she grinned to herself.

Her cousin lived on the East Coast, and he said she'd always have a place to crash with him and his wife.

So this was goodbye to her trailer tramp of a mother and sickheaded father.

As soon as she arrived days later, she stepped inside her cousin's bass-blaring apartment. There she met Judas Eden. The rest was history.

-- Goodbye to a town that treated a pretty girl ugly.

[greedy fly]

Like a gutter angel in toxic-shock light, she escorted the kid home when the night lights were turned out in the city, and the roads were misty at 7:37 PM. She waved goodbye as soon as he was cradled in the safe-haven of his home away from the slums, and stuffed a Marlboro in her mouth. She had just been helping someone else for once in her life, being benevolent whilst studying the little islands of needlepoint bruises crocheting plum on his inner-arms. A fellow junkie.
It took her about an hour to walk back home, but she enjoyed the stroll, it cleared her head, but only made the impulse more amplified. Her fingernails gnawed at her memory wounds haunting the gangly crease, her body resorted to a jittery mess of ragdoll limbs and self-hatred. She kept engulfing herself in lids to spare the salty moisture from ever leaking overboard the wings of her lashes, as she climbed.
One flight. Two flights. Three flights. Four.

One-on-one she almost collided with a junkie hurriedly sprinting down the staircase, but she italicized her body with hasty reflex, and ignored the vulgarities hissed and streamed from his raspy throat.

On the plane of her floor, she was divided between two doors--

Her home. And the gear.

She chose her apartment, and felt proud of herself for ignoring the caustic ache in her gut. But it was when she strode towards her empty answering machine, that layer all weakened. Her three boys were all busy; lost love and lost children. She knew better than to call them up and scroll her own problems. But, she knew someone who would listen.

The thud at his door kept crescendoing fervently by the moment, when he whipped it open he greeted her with a crooked grin and furrowed brows.

"You've finally come to your senses huh, baby?" That shit-eating grin was enough to make her want to hit him.

"Just give me it."

" 'Price has gone up."

" 'Don't care."

"You wanna give me any down payment?"

"Fuck you, I have the money, this time."

"Oh well, shucks."

And in the repose of her bedroom when wall met corner she spiked herself with euphoria. It was almost euphoric as little notes under her door and candle-light.

[greedy fly]

Her insides felt gutted; hollow, junk-kissed. Enraptured in a world of make-believe, suffocating in her bland black-and-white (like aged photographs) daydream, she laid there oceantide serene as his shadows loomed over her. The way she changed meant a lot to him; her hair had grown out considerably, brown sugar and burnt-frazzled knots growling at her jaw, bangs well past her faintly-thudding temples.

"Quinn..." It was a nostalgic sputter, almost shaky, before the chorus hit. "What have you fuckin' done to yourself, again? Come on."

Jonny knelt down, and started to elevate her jaunty bones in his arms. He was afraid she'd crumble like dust to the floor. "We're going home." Home had burned down a long time ago, in a ramshackle building that they shared rent with for less than a month.

Lazily, she nodded, her arms knotting the nape of his neck, her naked limbs swaying flaccidly as he took the trip from the open apartment door into the hallway, mourning with his lionlike jawbone grinding, that maddened twitch flaring lamps in his chaotic eyes. He bowed his chin, and whispered to her about kitchen fires.

When, she woke up to find nothing but white, plaster-chipping walls and an empty mattress, she had never been so disappointed in her life.

<font color="#060101" size="1">[ April 10, 2004 09:35 PM: Message edited by: electroshock ]</font>

[greedy fly]

Wake up calls hurt when they happen for real.

He was stoic with her screaming, grating teeth until they became a concoction as thin and junk-white as the smack that fucked her veins. Unrelenting. When she drowned herself, open eyed for the ceiling, he let go of her shoulders to hover over--looming and brooding like some holy watered distortion of Christ. She came up gasping from the suffocation of all the amniotic fluid and folded into a fetus-lay. And Jonny took the backside of his silver-knuckled hand and smacked it clear across her cheek. "What in mother fuckin' hell are you doin' to your god damned self, kid?" With his handprint on her face, he stood, jutting a hip back into the sink so that he could lazily fold arm over his chest in some pretzel-tangled knot; watching.