heart of gold {day 6 fight}

Lovers quarrel split by splintering ribs and tearing skin I turn an ear to failing faith and watch darkness fall.

No light to be found I am not the saving grace of a third party to remain unbiased, rather caught in an infinite loop that does not end with the sound of another cannon. Not when Sue Tate’s was still ringing in my ear like a hymnal tune played a note off-key, cacophonous in quiet ears I wish to hear nothing at all.

But silence is for the sane, and noise is only filler space in an empty mind.

And truly no thoughts begin to cross as words whistle past my ears like a hurricane, tearing apart the foundations of broken bodies, there is no shelter amidst the storm. Dropping rain on dulling bodies I do not strike as I hear the sound of splitting skin by the hand of that which only holds sin. “It takes a different sort of person than you or I to comprehend such a thing.”

Voice in vacant space her words linger on my fingertips like a temptation to walk away now, when questions were content with being unanswered and lovers were left to lie until repentance overtook revenge. But they were of a different kind, Circe Lyon and Orion Hammerfell, for they had no need for an overstepping outsider to end a war that had started much earlier than just sunrise.

On the breath of a broken believer I split the silence with sinful speech, “I do believe I have it figured out, Circe Lyon.”

Falling on fading flames I am the fuel to a fire they cannot control, not with a fire starter on my right and dry kindling on my left. Fan the flames only to step away, I stand amidst carnage holding a flag of surrender out to whichever threatens to smother the ashes first.

Lonely by a strike I cannot pin to definition two misses later and I am thin air defined by the touch of air cool upon sweaty palms, grasping desperately at tactile reminders of a heart I wish to hold in heavy hands I am instead met with the cool touch of death's fingertips across pale skin, relieving heat of burn marks that leave scars no hand alone could fix. 

Bomb yourself to fix the bullet holes-- I was still stuck on step one six days later, with no intent of fixing the fucking problem.

Besides, the last problem I had encountered resulting in the ripping of book pages until only sole letters remained, shards of sanity upon a glass floor they were the consummation of every word that could be rearranged to spell Wyatt O'Connor.

Broken was vague; shattered was too tender to describe the glass shards that stuck out of my skin to remind me of the blood that ran down my skin like red paint upon a canvas I could not touch. 

To bleed out in case of remembrance of a life once lived-- simple solution to a complex contradiction. There was no equation to a problem so equation-- no explanation, only the endpoints to the unfathomable.