Gasoline Rainbows

By Firey Femme

I had a dream last night. We all danced in circles, with fathoms of music weighing down upon us, the air like lead. It swallowed me into its heavy berth, and I threw my head back to swing in rhythm.

Ecstasy? Emotion? No, these things do not suit me.

I was in my dress, swishing around me as a great veil of threat. And then he was there, staring at me with those icy eyes. I danced away, ignoring his presence. And still, he leaned against the wall, staring into the sky. The stars twinkled so subtly over us all, casting a natural sort of faraway light I couldn't grasp. Dancing, in and out, weaving in between such decoration. And him, flawless... flawlessly cutting through me with his icicle eyes. Dark, serious eyes that didn't have any emotion.

This isn't a dream, is it? So, what I do makes a difference from what I don't do. And I am not doing anything that I want to... so what's the difference? Am I dreaming a dream, which becomes reality. Or rather, perhaps this is all someone else's dream.

Maybe hers. Over there, the childlike girl in the white dress. White... yes, you're pure. Flaunt it... is that all you have? My dream isn't looking at me anymore... was he ever?

He's looking at purity over there... laughing like she owns the world. You think you can leash this planet with a rope of innocence? You can do that to someone who isn't innocent. So why isn't working on me? I'm no innocent.

She stirs up the underlying tension into a swirl of colour, like gasoline after spilling and leaking its blood on the pavement. You swirl the puddle of gasoline, and it turns the beautiful rainbow colours of colour spectrum. You iridescent bitch... you seem to think you are the color spectrum. Then why are you wearing white?

The rain will come to wash away all your pretty puddles of gasoline in a swirl of screaming color. When you rub off the spectrum, and take off the white dress, you're no better than me. Will a squall be your rain, or must I wash away your gasoline rainbow myself?

Be optimistic... be heartfelt and genuine. Live in the white dress all of your life and overcome darkness.... You're so sweet it's making me sick, with your dress and your quizzical flirtatious looks. I know he'll get roped in - even the storm doesn't know when it will pass.

They have a name for people like me, but I don't want to know what it is. Right now, I am Instructor. Nothing more, nothing less. Good enough for me...

But no. You must be pure... you virgin whore. I am bitter, just like you. But we have different reactions I guess. Me with my pink dress, you with your white. I quietly reflect, broodingly watching over all that I love. You must be pure, you must be the martyr who will sweep us all away with your selfless gestures.

Could you, wicked angel, love a passing storm?

Did I say you'd vanish when the torrents of rain would wash you away, Mistress of the Spectrum? You think yourself whole, and pure? All I ask is questions... more and more.

I stop. I look. He doesn't look back, because he's looking at you. You broke the tension, you stopped the storm with your own unsettling calm.

Maybe it is I, who will vanish.

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