rafflesia streets ♔ ratts&groots . blitz
Nov 30, 2015 3:54:36 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Nov 30, 2015 3:54:36 GMT -5
g r o o t
(We die too quickly.)
It's what he woke up thinking, breathing - that eighteen years isn't enough. They aren't like the hydrangeas adorning his room, every breath is another he steals from someone else. The branches of his veins and the blossoms of his skin, there's red in his soul and that's everything more than he could breathe back into Margaret - it cracks. His lilac lungs. The pain isn't unbearable, three years and the battle wounds from an empty sigh and a snow-covered hill don't feel so unpatched. They're burlap, woven thick and heavy and noticable but it's livable.
So so noticeable, but oh so livable.
He burns in the dark - (it's only been a year.) They die too quickly, street rats and rafflesia kings, stillbeating hearts and ever so growing gashes. He's not like Ratts and Quentin and- (fuck) there's a crack. A still breath of cold autumn air. There aren't bars and alcohols and smashed windows to clutter his mind, there isn't revenge sex for him. All that's left when he leaves his mind is the blank, the cracks and breaks of roots to fragile to take the cold wind. It's visible in his eyes, the burlap lungs and the bodies that live between.
There's a solemn breath, waiting at the stop sign between 8th street and the old drug store that smells like Ratts. It's practically home. It smells like Margaret, the last moment of doe eyes when he believed roses grew between concrete and he placed a flower crown on the head of a shadow, and it smells like her body a year later. Decomposing. The wear of her casket of only enough time for silence to degrade his pupils, it reminds him of dark rooms. The year he sat alone while Ratts drank with Quentin and Draco and- fuck.
We aren't plants. He spent two years believing the silence was only a place to grow, the absence of Margaret would grow back by the overlapping vines of the people he had left. It's not the same people.
They're his folie, the pain shared between the tremor of terracotta plants and growing crab grass. But they don't grow, neither does Garrett himself. In the cracks of his soul, his fragmented piece of mind, there is no regrowth. He's nothing but rafflesia, and there is no rebound other than weaving his very being back together. And weeds grow between the pavement he brushes his hands across, between cracks and grooves and he finds home with them - waiting for Ratts with the smell of alcohol in his mind and- crack.
And he hates the silence, the cracks between his bones ever so noticable with the scattering thoughts trembling through his body and it's the fall of Margaret, the moment of giving up surrounded by snow while Garrett stood in silence next to Draco's shaking body. And it's the silence of standing alone a week ago, where Draco fell in front of him rather than beside him - he loved him. Not in the heart shattering, white picket fence love way, but the way his teeth chatter in the cold and he thinks of the break ins four years ago when they stole family heirlooms instead of family caskets.
Draco was family, buried tombless in a community grave. And Garrett fell, whereas Draco died in one piece, Garrett perished in pieces, the silence filling the cracks to the point of suffocation. There was no silence to give, as he laid across the pavement.
They all died so fast - why do I die so slowly?
