august. d1. fin

fox
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but a butt ?

august. d1. fin Feb 16, 2016 22:20:35 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Feb 16, 2016 22:20:35 GMT -5

august bilodeau. 16. career. his dad was all like yo don't manage a brothel son, it's not that great or fun; you should learn to kill kids instead my smol child. so now he's like doing that and slayin'. also ur ass is grass and he's gonna mow it. anyways he kind of just like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ for everything rn.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 15:04:49 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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1,362 POSTS

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but a butt ?

august. d1. fin Feb 29, 2016 23:54:58 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Feb 29, 2016 23:54:58 GMT -5

{He reminds me of the taste of ink. Of the time I chewed and sucked on the end of a pen until the cap broke.
It turned my tongue blue.
And it was bitter, strange -- I spit it out onto my hand at first taste.
The colour dripped from my fingers, fell, flecked the carpet. And it made my lips bruised and my hands stained and my throat christened.

{He reminds me of cigarette burns when I was four.
I don't remember much, just
an improvised lullaby hummed so out of tune,
the earth rocking in his grasp,
the pain afterwards.

The ashes turned white and crumbled, hissed pink at my arm.
I cried,
I think,
but I don't know. I can only hear him screaming fuck --
The scar is still there, a circular ring.

His skin feels gritty. Breath like rust.
{He reminds me of bad vibes.

But I let him touch me anyways.

Last Edit: Mar 13, 2016 2:54:34 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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august. d1. fin Mar 11, 2016 18:36:34 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 11, 2016 18:36:34 GMT -5

{Childhood used to be just colouring books. He bought me a lot of them, and a lot of pencils and crayons -- but not markers
because he said the ink was too hard
to get out of carpets.

{I'd work diligently on the pages while he brought guests through a door. Sometimes the visitors would bring me things --
a tin soldier, a deck of cards, a bag of sweets. Just dumb shit.
I guess no one really cared about the kid colouring in trees and houses and flowers at the front desk.

And I guess it didn't really matter in the end.
Sometimes it was strange.
Not bad, but different.

{Childhood used to be just colouring books -- muted at the reception desk, heartbeats at the bar, voices in the lounge. They played a lot of pool, the girls there did. Talked forever. Complained a bit because dad never let them smoke when
I was in there with
blue lungs.

But they were nice to me, I suppose.
I don't really know. I still have my books
somewhere in the house.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 14:58:17 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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august. d1. fin Mar 13, 2016 3:22:02 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 13, 2016 3:22:02 GMT -5

{I used to be
always sick with
separation anxiety,
asthmatic tears, midnight fevers, strange nightmares.

-- or something like it I guess.

{His patience worked on aspirin and cigarettes.
I don't think he'd ever wanted me that much,
so it was hard.

But I was his son -- I was his when I learned to call him dad, and grabbed at his hair, and made him catch bugs in jars, and when I spit out the food he'd burnt, and through the time I caught pneumonia and then so did he. I was his son on all the nights he'd tried to sing me to sleep, swearing and begging ripred for me to shut the fuck up before the sun rose orange

and so it was harder still.

{I don't when I stopped being afraid.

I don't know how I learned to take care of myself.
He tells me it's because I started training,
like learning to punch was what made me strong.

but I don't know.
Maybe I just

got older.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 2:00:18 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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august. d1. fin Mar 13, 2016 3:27:16 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 13, 2016 3:27:16 GMT -5

"hey whoreson."

{Maybe,
I cried myself empty one day,
drained oceans and finally
came up for air.

{I breathed easier when I learned to run -- punch, use a spear, throw a knife, break a bone, slit a throat. Maybe breathed better
when my lungs were pushed into the mat,
felt the cut of plastic blades at my neck. Maybe.

{Kids played for king of the playground.
I never cared to win, but --

{People forget
to call me shit while pinned underneath a clip point. People forget rumours in spaces where words have no room to blister. And dad thinks being a career is what made me strong but --

"hey August."

It's just survival.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 3:07:20 GMT -5 by fox

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august. d1. fin Mar 21, 2016 1:58:17 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 21, 2016 1:58:17 GMT -5

{Some people would say I was adopted
because I didn't look enough like my dad and no one knew my mother, and they liked to tell me things
that made it hard to breathe .

{I would subtract,
looking for shapes and
colours that never fit well -- dark browns and fine edges wreathed into the heavy-handed bright forms that belonged to dad. And I guess I wanted to know her to know myself. But in response,
he would only say

"She was no fucking good,"
an expressionless, acerbic bite between
gritted teeth he saved for her.

She was no fucking good.

{I grew up,
grew taller, grew stronger,
grew more freckles -- like the gentle flick of a paintbrush
dipped in brown. I grew older and still waited for him after school
in the lounge and at the bar next door,
but now out of habit (or
something like that.)

I grew up
in a body that
felt foreign sometimes.

But the visitors who used to bring me things
never really cared about the kid colouring in family silhouettes.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 15:01:31 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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but a butt ?

august. d1. fin Mar 21, 2016 2:05:09 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 21, 2016 2:05:09 GMT -5

{He smells drunk, I think.
Not like alcohol but like an echo, lukewarm --
like an aftertaste of paint thinners, carpet dust. Something weird.

So he smells drunk but his hands are steady and cold and careful
underneath my shirt. His fingers slide over at my ribs,
pick for some invitation between old stitches and this time he says

"oh, what happened here darling?"

{I had holes in my lungs when I was born you know
and a throat that choked on air.
I was a pretty weakass child you know
who'd always cry for hours left alone. And people will tell me I'm strong now. But I don't feel so different from who I was before I got tall and good at hitting shit. I don't feel like I know any better.

{His hands move away, downwards,
skin like November pavements,
gravely and stinging -- I should stop.

I don't want dad to worry.

Maybe I want to know him to know myself
or maybe I just don't really mind.

But I let him touch me anyways.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 14:54:27 GMT -5 by fox

fox
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but a butt ?

august. d1. fin Mar 24, 2016 2:02:03 GMT -5

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Post by fox on Mar 24, 2016 2:02:03 GMT -5

{"You want a light?"
I shake my head.

The battery radio plays knit with clinking glass and voices that sound disconnected outside the staff room of the bar --
and violins are always sad, I think. Some kind of somberness in the strings. Smoke billows from his cigarette, silken, in tune.
I watch it rise and roll and fill the room.
{"Why not? Take one."

He reminds me of the taste of ink. Of how I stared at my hands and at the bit of plastic caught broken in daydreams.
It leaked into the carpet.
And I sat just dumbly, numbed, wondering.

My throat aches.
{"I'm leaving."

"Next week, babe?"

I shake my head.

"Okay, howbout --"

"I'm not coming back."
He's screaming some shit at me when
I close the door on the way out, but

I just want to go home.

Last Edit: Mar 24, 2016 14:51:13 GMT -5 by fox

lance Librarian 3,638 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him/His last seen Apr 24, 2024 17:22:13 GMT -5 gay and chaotic? call it gayos	august. d1. fin Mar 24, 2016 16:21:29 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by lance on Mar 24, 2016 16:21:29 GMT -5 Ahhh he looks fabulous, fox. ACCEPTED!
	credit to darsypoo uwu credit to fireflyz! credit to stare!