Short Prose – 400 Words – “Bleeding in Purity” – Erotica – 3/15/2021

Platinum print, portrait of Evelyn Nesbit by Rudolph Eickemeyer, Jr., 1901. PG*004135.B5.26.

Echo. Echo out, and then, remain sad.

We say to you, a little fog cannot blind those eyes. Hold your piercing scream to the wind, and then let us breathe of you. Allow ourselves. And then, we will dance to your tune. We will dream of what will sometimes never reach. Then, we will keep remembering. To hold upon what shouldn’t be dropped. Just skin. All of yours. Held in the puddles, massaged in the dirt, washed when no one looks.

Keep bleeding in this sadness, for such a sight is so pure. A virgin whoredom. A Christian banquet, with dust to every mile of your privileged beauty. Would Christ ever soak himself in your blood, in these tears of a watering sorrow?

And then, we leave you alone. And then, the shores show themselves up as empty. We go, for a minute. We depart, for a second. You suffer. You whine. And then, we return to your loneliness. And then, all the shells and stones wash up. A great defeat, all over your bones. We all begin to echo. We all take our turns to be sad, to dream of the birth of more deserts, more of the desertion of our dreams or our great stretches of the softest thing which is water.

To your tears, so pure, though it comes not always as the splash from the sea. It comes, at times, from above. We are then forced to look up. We are motioned, of our minds, to keep ourselves comprehending that you are gone. Though, the tears do not disperse. They simply add to the ocean.

Raindrops and teardrops, with sadness to soak and to bury. To conceal, for is that not where you once were, in this world?

A face of grime. The woman, a whore, one beauty with much to destroy in yourself. You left the world open, when your legs were parted to birth all of us. To your breasts, plump as they were, with nipples as the lighthouses to guide our ships, we landed at your flesh. We gave ourselves to grace. We breathed of your neck. We dined upon life, from your hips.

You were the endless surrounding. The ocean that tore us open, as well, to be like you. You let not a tear be missed, nor a droplet of milk to be left not drunken. We travelled throughout you, only to be left without you.

Should we not always be grateful?