the boy is dipped in pain, brain leaking blood like the girl's uterus. his clothes heavy from the rain, his heart heavier. hands shaking, he wipes the half dripping red knife on his acid washed jean.
the trees just shadows, sun pulling up, he pushes her off the bank into the slow flowing river. inside the rust red car, he opens a diary covered with dried blood fingerprints and several polaroid pictures fall out.
Happy, smiling girls all of them and now another one to join their dead league. He clips her picture to a page and writes 47 on the white frame.
You sit by the sofa all alone. A beam of sunray peeks through the drawn shades and your eyes are trained on the particles slow dancing in the beam, not moving, not blinking. Your hands are limp by your sides, you might as well be dead. I stare at you from a distance, hoping you'd say something, scared that if i tell you how dejected you seem, you'll just shake your head, say 'see you later' and leave the room. And not come back home until late at night. How do i make you realize that standing in front of you is a girl who loves you more than anything and seeing you so distant, her heart wrenches. That too without speaking. And i am no expert of telepathy. Nor will your distant, dejected mind ever receive any of my broken signals.
He starts writing the poem at 23:10, thinking of her, the calls of the night, like a cuckoo's, soothe his otherwise always buzzing brain.
Over coffee spill stained pages he scribbles, adds more bitterness to the paper. He lets the ink suck on his soul, (the secret ingredient of how to make a bitter coffee bitterer). Thinking of her skin glowing in the golden hour covered with red from his teeth, he stains the paper teary crimson; the pen slashing his soul and clashing with his inner angel, that is almost gone.
He had promised that he shall not write anymore, for it costs him his soul but now he's ready to sell his every bit of flesh to be able to pour more agony on her like burning cold acid.
His bucket list spells out destroy her in block letters. and his daddy always told him, real dreams let you sleep never. (Father was right).
spiders scatter out from behind the bed when I put my hand trying to pull out the necklace you gave me and which I flung the night you left. I pull away repulsed, spiders have always scared me.
their hideous black scattering bodies remind me on your heart and my brain, looking at them gives me this feeling of being lost in a wild maze and I'm running and running trembling, my every nerve scared of what I might encounter the same feeling I get when I'm around you; like walking on egg shells.
Now that the shells are gone my buzzing brain can spin webs in peace knowing that your heart is also working on its next scheme.
A wine dark sea his skin thick Blood thicker Isolated from the world United with his Cigrattes Better than He's to his Fingers. Ash clings to his thick Pride and lungs full of smoke clouds and while he wants to come out of the swamp Into sunflowers and polar bears But All he does is sniff lingerie She left behind Promising to come back When the wife's cold In the backyard. A stoner stoned to life His drugs killed his wife.
my head's swimming with nausea, disgust at the world and frothing hate drips down my mouth like saliva spills from a mad dog's snout. I'm no less than a mad girl myself, carrying blades and knives hidden in my socks and up my sleeves where once I wore my heart.
shoes squeaking on wet pavement, I walk head down my hoodie up. I know no one's home yet I ring the bell again and again, again and again. It gets dark, it starts raining and the ding dong is overpowered by the voice of the thick raindrops falling hard on the concrete (Or maybe it was the static in my brain that blocked out the doorbell). I slump down against the door and the static rain continues while the water and water&salt mix, the key cold in my pocket.
Live and let live ---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Love? Everytime I heard this word I thought it was a synonym for cliche. As a person who is obsessed with living an exotic life, cliche, is sort of unacceptable. So love, I never searched for it.
Running away, every time I heard this two words, I felt like it was a synonym for me. As though the only thing I learnt is to run away. Stability isn't my noblest virtue, and I don't think there is a recovery for this.
Closure, I think if ever comes a time where I'm asked my antonym, I'd utter this word. Even in my mouth this word sounds foreign. It tastes awfully unique, but I'm afraid I'm not fond of it.
I've ran away so many times, pretended to be someone else not out of spite, but because sometimes my skin is a terrible place to be. I've been said that I'm afraid of familiarity. And I've realised tonight, that I am afraid of familiarity. The only reason I can't stay in one skin for a long time is that familiarity haunts me, to be someone who is predictable. To be someone, from whom people expect something. Expectations, they give rise to dissapointments, and I've been a dissapointment for too long.
This isn't something I've written to pity myself, it's something I've become. Something I'd not really be. Something I'd change in a breath. I am someone who I'd rather not be, and living wearing a facade is so tiring. Before I learnt to be me, I became someone else, and now I don't how to be me.
But love, I am running away this time too, I hope I bump into you while doing so. Maybe show me what closure is like?