TITLE: Heart of a Poet
AUTHOR: Mexx
DISCLAIMER: Not mine… you know the drill.
RATING: PG-13.
SUMMARY: Spike thinks about the women he has loved.
FEEDBACK: Don’t make me beg. Seeing me beg isn’t pretty. But feedback would be nice.

Thump. Thump. I don’t hear that sound anymore. The beating of the worst organ of all has stopped. I am dead. My heart doesn’t beat.

A heart that made blood pound around my human body and poetry pour from it. Stupid words with no meaning but to amuse a stupid boy.

((quickly, please, i'm the very spirit of vexation. what's another word for gleaming?))

And then I’m dead. A beautiful woman with gleaming eyes and tales of fish makes the pounding stop. Teeth in my throat drinking the red liquid that was forced around my body. It just lays still inside my veins. Not moving. My heart has stopped beating.

But it hasn’t stopped bleeding. Bleeding for them. For her. Blonde hair and golden skin dancing around my head, making me forget who I am and who made me.

((destroying everything that was me, until all that’s left is you in a dead shell))

Forgetting my dark goddess who would dance naked in the rain at night. She was my jasmine. My night blossoming flower. Fragile petals and hypnotic pollen. Ebony hair, long and beautiful against paper white skin.

My heart doesn’t beat. It shouldn’t feel. Make me feel like this. It doesn’t beat but the pain it causes makes me feel alive. William would use sweet words and pretty metaphors to describe loving, living and life. But I know it isn’t pretty. It’s harsh and cruel and despite the feelings in my heart it makes me ache.

((there’s a traitor here beneath my breast))

I don’t want to love them. They make me ache and bleed and I tell my heart not to feel like this but it makes me love anyway.

And when I loved her, Dru, and for a time, she loved me back I thought I’d died –well, that part was true at least, and gone to heaven. So special and precious and dark and mine. And now she’s gone. Left me alone to love no one but my enemy, pretty and smiling and smelling of sunshine. Not like Dru at all. But still I love her. Love both of them but can’t have either. To soft for Dru. To dark for the slayer. And William was beneath Cecily.

Darling Cecily who William thought he loved. Wooing her with roses and softly spoken poems he believed this to be the way to win a woman, to wish to feel her heart beating gently in harmony against his own. Now the woman I loved more ferociously than death is shiny and bright and good and intelligent and hates me. And I love her. I love her with everything that I am, every particle of myself is on fire because of the raging pain that spurned from my heart.

((if my heart could beat it would break my chest))

-- finis