my lover's got humour + z-boi/cricket
Jun 21, 2014 23:42:21 GMT -5
Post by ✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ on Jun 21, 2014 23:42:21 GMT -5
My lover's got humour
She's the giggle at a funeral
Knows everybody's disapproval
I should've worshiped her sooner
She's the giggle at a funeral
Knows everybody's disapproval
I should've worshiped her sooner
I take the glasses off carefully by pinching the sides between thumb and forefinger. Placing them on the worktop in front of me, I rub at my eyes, trying to work the sleeplessness out of them. The candles lit around me have grown much shorter, I wonder what time it is, how early in the morning it is this time. What sleep have I given away in order to lose myself in the words in front of me.
The smell of old leather fills every fold of this tent, mingling with the scents of burned wax and dried out paper. I look at the book I've just been reading. It was poetry tonight, the sonnets of a woman named Elizabeth Bennet Browning.
I cannot stop reading sonnets. I never noticed how many I had bookmarked with bits of string in all the books and papers I own. I wonder when it was that I became such an old sap, what made me put away the coolness to all emotion, all feeling in trade for this emptiness. I am intent on filling it with words and works, with the search for pain.
I fear that I am becoming bored with my pursuits, that I have been consumed entirely.
At tonight's show I laid myself down on my bed of nails and I knew by the way that the crowd gasped that there was blood. I did not feel the sting of pain I was meant to feel to warn me of this because I cannot. So I bled onto the dirt and watched the crowd gasp. Then I picked myself up, dutifully cleaned off the spikes and walked away.
My life is run by a different pilot than myself. I feel like a train that's gone off the rails and so I lose myself in sonnets.
I turned twenty-three years old the other day and forgot about it until yesterday when I checked the calendar. Sometimes I don't even know what season it is.
I try not to think about things to hard most often because whenever I begin to analyze anything that isn't in a book, my brain takes me back to that night, two years ago now when I told her that I was leaving. She hadn't cared. She'd nodded me off like she was a queen and I was nothing more than a slave that she had finally used all up.
The anger of that moment stays with me, fresh, like a wound that forgot to heal, opening and bleeding anew with every step that I take.
(I should have known that she would drop me. Even my own parents could not stomach me.)
I don't even know what I wanted from her. Something that I could not receive from her anyway. She was excellent at touching me with every move she made, making my heart sell itself out for her so easily. Still, I couldn't feel her touch. She couldn't give me that and that's what I wanted from her. I wanted her to make me feel. Something, anything really.
I suppose she has because it's been two years but every time my tent flap moves I always hope that it's going to be her.
Hope is nothing to nourish oneself on. I am underfed and forgotten, slowly starving to death.
I always knew that I was dead before but now it's hit home. I raise my wrist to my ear just to listen for my heartbeat but it never comes.
I know that I still have a heart because it aches for her, every second, every minute and hour of every day.
The tent flap moves in the subtlest of ways, but I know by the parting that it cannot be anyone but Arbor. Despite myself, my lips curl themselves into a grin, happy to see the big tiger gracing my doorstep again. He walks towards me in the most princely of ways only dropping his decorum when he rests his giant head in my lap, begging to be pet. With a sigh, I run my hands over his fur, unable to feel the comfort of it. My disease disallows connections of any kind.
The tiger enjoys it however and begins to purr, shutting his eyes against my rubbing of it's ears. "Is she neglecting you again, handsome?" I murmur before bending down and resting my head against his furry one.
