share your mouthful } { lust^4 | lysa/silas

| the waste |
| in solitude; in memory |

Heart printed upon sleeves that- ones in which cover fair, porcelain skin that was etched deep with imaginary ink. Lists of names marked off one-by-one until invisible scars distorted into burn outs. Torn from cloth and fabric, made from the stitches and seams that remained as the only outcome to such, in an attempt to fix a perfect boy. One who'd had the world at the very tips of his shattering hands, before they collapsed upon the cold, hard floor.

"A fifth of that bottle
Is raised to the sky-"

Empty cheering follows the sounds of pure pain and agony of the burning sensation that slips past those puckered lips. Wrapping around something that had become far too familiar for comfort within the minds of others. Although, in the eyes of those who had nothing else to lose, it was a perfect get away- a trance induced to only enhance the loss and rid of the sense.

"And while
Everyone is too busy cheering
No one questions-"

Questions were left shut at the door years ago, to a home where visitors were forced to a halt at the unwelcoming mat- only to be turned away. They had always been asked in the sense of 'why's?' and 'how's?' However, answers to the truth were treated like secrets, only to be kept behind locked lips that parted only when in the company of a significant other. 

"How empty
You must be."

Emptiness is figurative; metaphorical, not literal. In the sense that one cannot be empty, full of emotions that stray us away from seeing that clearly- one is always feeling, even when they're not. A hole, void rather, sinks deep in the heavy hearts of both stone and flesh. Emptiness is hollow, and a heart filled with crumbling pieces, that threatens to shatter- or a heart made of flesh that threatens to spill untold secrets. 


They say a heart made of stone and flesh are two that only oppose. A thin crust of stone guarded, like precious, tough armor of beauty lining along flesh that beats at its own rhythm. It was an almost perfect combination, however perfection is a downfall for those who're blind. And I- Silas- am far from being masked by the blindness in the diaphanous intentions of those who want nothing more than the precious company of a night.

"Perhaps

Emptiness

Is bliss."

My eyes wander around the scene, taking in what has been unchanging each passing day. Resting my right arm against the circular booth table, my limp hand carries a shot glass by its rim. Fingers pinched securely along the edges, abuse of such a sweet, toxic, inducing solace wouldn't be standed for.


Spaced into uncertainty, the cheering of my name carries me along into taking "just one more." But it was always in question, "how much is one more?" One that an answer was never accompanied by, as drowning in poison was a forte I'd picked up on as the years passed by.


A mouthful of 3 crystal clear vodka shots raced down my throat, burning as each made its way past. Picking up the chaser between my fingers, my lips press against the rim of the glass, following down the same path that had left a trail behind. Placing the bottom of the glass down back on the tray in which they came, I could feel it hit like a passing train all of a sudden.


Filling with fire, my wandering eyes and mind make their target, resting preciously along a man who sits not too far. His name slips my mind for but a moment, a familiar face painted among the crowd of travelers within, those who either blend or become imaginary. However, his features were far too striking to forget, and his name was one that moved from the back of my mind, finding itself on the tip of my cut tongue-

"Lysander."

Exhaling desire, I find myself in a steady trance, while the music rushes through like motivation to muse. Footsteps matching the beat, I carry on with losing myself before I am found.

| savage saint |

{ credit to: zoë }