migraines ✞ samandriel&alecks

s a m a n d r i e l.

It's dead cold outside. This forest is weak, dying, rotting, breaking absent, void of feeling besides the beating of my veins. Cracking under my feet (so heartbreaking) how can Alecks live such a dry state of being? No lights but the morning sun - just the blanket that is the mouth of the forest. It's a plaintive thought. (A natural limbo) the breaking between death and life that is this environment. Both the absence of warm blood and cooling veins.

Mournful that it won't survive.

In the heart of the frozen, I'm left alone; just I and the movement between my lungs, trachea, throat. The cold burns, biting on the fire of a soul belonging somewhere else. Chewing through bone marrow just to swallow me there's a reason I hate the cold. Mourning the morning peace, it's supposed to be the calmest - when the life is frosted over with the thought of waking up. Branches of nature's veins winding over my head bleeding morning dew (bleeding like the cities lights, burning throughout all the frostbite)

Maybe it's just an eternal riddle nature vs nurture, I hate the cold Alecks feeds off, I hate the chattering off teeth, grinding of boots against frozen ground. I hate the burning of my veins in the center. It's gorgeous, supposedly, like a rabid animal, yet to be put down. Never had the guts, my brother, as I move further into the forest, crawling, scratching, slowly through the fur of a lion. How to trust such a beast?

The answer is you kill it first.

Alecks never do it too stupid attached, but it's the sacrifices we make that build us past the horizon. I won't let him sink, (because I can not conquer alone.) I strike the match in my pocket, fire burning the frost burning my throat. Frost melting like the blood in my fingertips, you kill it first. I slit its throat, take the lion by the mane throw the match, bursting a tree open from the seams.

Life is to be controlled, lest be it catch like forest fire I pray. People are greedy, human nature bitter at the crossing of their skin; nature busting by the lust of expansion. Utopia is to be led, not by the thought of feral, biting the heart of the future and drinking its fruits. The fire grows, cracking against the roots, chewing like the frost in my veins and celsius of this life. There's a reason I hate the cold. (My fire grows, matures, builds in ways Alecks wouldn't understand.)

Smoke signals to the skies as I'm left staring, breathing, learning, amazed. Matchstick obliterated by being, I'm standing in front of the sign of a new life; a new era, my era. Each one ends like the next begins, through the flames of revolution. Somewhere Alecks's lungs exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale the bitter of the cold, the stinging except he loves it like I hate it like my fire chews on it. Passion embedded in the cells; he'll learn from a fire. A phoenix of knowledge, oxygen burning up to his apparent nullified senses (he'll wake up from his daze eventually.)

The epidemic of this harrowing world, how to trust such an ignorance?

(You kill it first.)