silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip]

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
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if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] May 17, 2016 22:51:19 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on May 17, 2016 22:51:19 GMT -5

.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

red marks
From this window pane.

like a blossom petal against my skin

this cool of autumn nights was missed
and I was but a storm girl, p,.
many months ago, when my skin
wasn’t so weathered.
(but not much changed)
(not particularly)

i’m cold.
always cold.
and I’d think it a metaphor for something godly if it wasn’t such a commodity of a feeling.

softness
I want to cry.
I don’t know why.

and so I lean
against
glass
listening with open ears
watching with teary blue eyes
and a heart full of longing
displaced love, invested in all the wrong places.
(i know, i know)

Blue fog

Last Edit: Jun 4, 2016 8:00:12 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Jun 3, 2016 20:23:44 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Jun 3, 2016 20:23:44 GMT -5

r u t h .

September, 68th Games.

Grass has never felt so parched.

Feet wrinkling at the tingling sensation that makes my skin crawl with imaginary lice. When I shake my head from side to side and see white flakes of dandruff fall from a peeling scalp, I can almost convince myself it is snow, simplistic and beautiful and wondrous. Mesmerising in a way I always believed I would grow to be – star-capturing, gaze-lingering.

Shuffling of socks on dusted floorboards.

‘B – Blaire?’

Voice, barely a whisper, croaked in a strangled voice that’s been choking on tears.

‘Mmm.’

‘I can’t sleep again.’

Something of a laugh.

‘You’re older than me, shouldn’t I be the one with the nightmares?’

Rolled eyes, like every last piece of scattered sanity.

‘By a minute, it doesn’t count.’

Huffed.

Silence.

Shifting.

A lift of blanketed warmth.

‘C’mere.’

Shared sanctuary, something glowing, a bronzed shimmer of –

– more than I’ll ever be.

Because at the end of it all the grass under my stubborn feet is still dried and craving fluid, and I’m more than willing to drown the ground in my tears, but.

The world is so big, so vast, and I am so tiny, so forgotten. No endless rivers can save this part of the earth. Cursed, like me, like Blaire, like all of us.

So I try not to sob, for it makes no difference whether the pain is internalised or visible.

For Blaire, I try.

I simply try to hold my head higher, tilt my chin to the heartachingly blue sky, and wish. Dream. Live in fantasy lands where we all get to live.

So some silver part of me may be beautiful, once.

~~One last time.~~

Last Edit: Jun 5, 2021 19:16:25 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Jun 4, 2016 1:48:55 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Jun 4, 2016 1:48:55 GMT -5

r u t h .

I stopped leaving the house many months ago.

Years, even, and time is nothing but a merciless bomb, waiting to deliver one final, fatal blow to my aching frame. So I stopped counting the seconds that tick, tick, ticked by on the tiny clock sat on the window sill of our bedroom. Lilith and I – our.

I don’t know whether the others moved out of their shared rooms or not, but Lilith told me she didn’t mind sharing our four walls. Ours. Ours in a world where nothing is ours for long.

I don’t know the fate of those other silent rooms – I don’t care.

I’m tugging at knots in my hair that have been there for weeks, but I don’t care.

My eyes haven’t moved from the ceiling above my head in so long that tears have formed and reformed at the corner slits. Not all of them from blatant, bored staring. But it’s been days since I last cried out for him – in the middle of the night, a voice so broken it shook the unstable roots that suspend Sycamore still, somehow, after all this time and tragedy and heartache and misery – and that’s strength, right?

I’m okay, right?

BUT I’M NOT OKAY

I’M NOT FINE

I’M ON FIRE

THIS RAIN LEAKS THROUGH THE ROOF

AND IT BURNS

AND I DROWN

AND I FREEZE

AND I’M NOT OKAY

A finger absently loses itself in my black locks. Twirling, twisting around – I’ve been caught in a hurricane for too long to fight the freefall feeling.

Last Edit: Feb 8, 2017 4:44:52 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Jun 5, 2016 7:28:46 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Jun 5, 2016 7:28:46 GMT -5

r u t h .

What

is

a

girl.

What

is

a

woman.

Where

do

i

belong.

You’ll never know what it’s like to be a woman.

You’ll never know what it’s like to be a girl.

These thoughts I ponder, when I’ve lost the time to ponder much else. Everything is relative, none of it important, and it makes no difference what order these troubles press on my brain.

I don’t know a lot.

1. I’m no hero. I’m only a girl.

2. I’m not a girl. A girl is a right.

3. I’ve never been right. All my dreams were wrong.

4. I need to give up on dreams. Imaginations are fickle.

I’m always a binary anomaly, crafted from stardust to never have a place within this universe, in this lifetime at least.

AND

WHY

STAY

IF

I

AM

NEITHER

GIRL

NOR

WOMAN.

Last Edit: Feb 6, 2017 7:01:19 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Jun 16, 2016 8:30:05 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Jun 16, 2016 8:30:05 GMT -5

r u t h .

4:17am.

And here’s a room, and here’s a mind with a realisation: it’s been a good few days of normal sleeping patterns.

For once, there were no afternoon naps. Exhaustion forced my eyelids closed more than once, but a stubbornness – a fight, almost, that was long lost – kept them open until it was some reasonable hour of the evening and I finally allowed myself sweet release, coming all too easily to tired bones.

Of course, it couldn’t last. Nothing lasts forever.

And here’s a room, and I don’t know why I can’t keep my eyelids shut tonight. They refuse to stay down. Blaire taught me a trick once, for insomnia: “just keep your eyes shut tight; don’t open them for anything.” And it worked, in a strange way I never asked the mechanics of. Maybe it was magic. Maybe just coincidence. Too bad I’m not a firm believer in fate.

But that stubbornness, that remnant of fight that was here only a few days ago, is all but dried up. I’ve lost the willpower to shut my eyes to the darkness. I’ll swim in it instead.

4:33am.

There’s a faint tug in my stomach that’s been there for the past three hours, now. I might do something about it, if I didn’t love the feel of protruding collarbones against cold fingertips – like the blood circulation can’t quite reach every inch of my body. Because something’s working if I can feel my ribcage pulling at my skin, and I’ve never been anything but slim and short and broken and hopeless and weak but these days, there seems to be nothing left. Nothing, and satiation may mask the cry of internal organs but it won’t repair them, not really. I revel in the fragility.

She thinks, that isn’t right, that’s not healthy.

~~Of course, she does not care.~~

4:51am.

Sometimes, being awake isn’t so bad. Because even though the nightmares stopped a month ago (but it could have been longer, or it could have been shorter -- or is it even allowed to be given an end time, because they still come and go, come and go, ebb and flow, I don’t know, I just don’t know) being asleep is just as terrifying. There’s still a choking at my neck when I try to breathe at an ungodly hour of the morning.

Sometimes, these nightmares, they’re still there, but most days now, there is nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I just want to know what happened.

How did everything go wrong?

My days are dull but they aren’t nothing. Nothing makes the night time unbearable.

Instead, I’m left with the feeling of eyes all over, home to unmissable disgust. The feeling of hairs sticking up on arms and inward shakes from a coldness that shouldn’t be there in a realm of nothing.

Nothing.

And it’s not nothing because they judge and I can’t hide from them and I want to scream but in a world of nothing, not even I seem to exist. I want to ask why, how, why, where, why, who, why, why, why, ask until my veins bleed the answers, why.

Twenty years old, and not a fucking clue.

I’d hate to be me, too.

4:54am.

Some beliefs hold stronger than others. I wonder how we determine which to carry beside our stilled hearts.

5:15am.

Silver bleeds behind shut eyelids.

In a nest made of blankets and sheets and dandruff and shivering feet, it’s a silent world. Laboured breaths shallow and deep all at once are too quiet for the strain they place on my shoestring lungs.

When I scream, I do not hear the white noise.

The quilt is pulled tighter around my shoulders, fending off an unseen evil. I’ve always fascinated over butterflies – once upon a time, for their beauty, and the grace with which they would float through the air, that sense of serendipity. Now, I envy their transformative safety. When they begin a journey of change, they’re safe in a cocoon.

~~Why didn’t we ever get cocoons?~~

There’s that belief – that there’s safety behind every corner, in a short-circuit corner of a too-small bed.

But silver still bleeds from my wrists, even though the lines have faded, and the world keeps spinning in a silent melancholy.

6:10am.

You’re so gone, Ruth Sycamore.

Last Edit: Jun 5, 2021 18:54:56 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Feb 6, 2017 7:11:18 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Feb 6, 2017 7:11:18 GMT -5

r u t h .

Life is a drag, a mess of ruins of a demon overthrown, and I’m supposed to be one of the ones to pick up broken pieces of shattered glass windows. Happy, bright, bubbly. A brain full of weeds and spewing optimism. I don’t speak much because for a long time there were voices telling me I had nothing to say, that nobody cared. It was easy to fall into a role of submissive pliancy when there were snakes crawling up my oesophagus and sitting heavy on my tongue. Slimy. Cold. Days I couldn't breathe, and there was nobody there to care other than a brother who'd been cursed with this pathetic excuse of a twin.

How do you grow past such cowardice? How do you accept your own disshelved heart?

A loaded word, fingers tapping at linoleum, itching for something to pull, trigger, aim, where did this come from, and

why don't I care.

I used to stay up late and listen to hushed whispers from the older kids – Lilith, Edgar, sometimes Silas and a begrudging Arwen – of something...

pathetic

of protection.

Implied words of how they were the broken ones, too far gone, and that these next crestfallen excuses of children had to find a new path, they just had to.

How could they not see how impossible a feat that was always going to be? But I had a role – a young, stupid orphan whom the others could play with when they got bored of Laila’s pouting and Ara’s crying. I was there.

I was there, and that’s all I was.

And I was there to be forgotten, to drift into the background, and the role I got handed told me to accept it as a part of life.

I tried.

And even when I had my own plans and hopes and dreams they were thrown away and dashed from the sky. “No, be this way, do this, act like this, because none of us are lucky enough to have youth like you, so be happy and make us feel a bit more human.”

I tried.

A heart full of hate was a long time coming, brought by looming storm clouds, waiting to strike. Even in house fires, they were always there. ~~Sometimes I used to think we had sunny days, but looking back, I can’t remember a single day of sunshine.~~ I think the first tear in my heart was when Laila left, but if I’m searching for honesty, and answers, and no more lies, it was when my shaking hand squeezed Blaire’s until his veins looked ready to pop out, and I couldn’t stop apologising for everything, yet was only brave enough to own up to cutting off blood circulation. As if I wasn’t guilty of a crime committed – of splitting up a family.

When Blaire went, too, I couldn’t...

just

couldn’t.

But there’s some stubborn insistence in the souls of Sycamore House who regard death as nothing. That we must simply carry on with roles we never asked for. And maybe they're onto something.

But they never had a hero like him.

I haven't cried today and I don't know if that makes me strong or weak or heartless, because all I feel is a numb guilt. It's hurting my heart.

This hurts so fucking much, I hate you goddammit. I hate me, do something, fuck.

Something slipped.

I don’t care much about it.

But it seeped in. It sank down, burned its way through my bones and settled in my veins. Hidden, present, something heavy.

God, I was such a pushover. I cringe at what I used to be, and I think life is about growing out of those stages of awkwardness and embarrassment. But I think it always remains.

Because I don’t feel like I’ve made any progress at all.

I wanted to fit my own roles, even without knowing what that meant. I was never so naïve to believe in some hint of truth in bedtime stories about princesses and dragons and castles and long blonde hair and handsome princes. Children are supposed to eat that stuff up; the nonsense was shaken out of me before I could even crawl. I don’t think it makes me deprived. Just different. I’m definitely odd.

I’ve learnt princesses only exist on television screens, only emerge from the castle when everybody else around them is dead. They sit on a throne of corpses, and they wear a mask made of ghosts.

In some cruel, twisted way, I still ended up a princess.

Shrouded in flames from burning houses, two-storey castles that crumble when you run down the hallways. Short black hair, messy ponytails and unkempt curls when I lose my hairbrush and I can’t pat the flyaway strands down straight. A dress of rags, unwashed; a smell of the earth, of paint, of never being clean.

Through it all, I was Ruth.

Ruth and Ruth and Ruth and Ruth and Ruth and Ruth and

I wear many masks these days, but they’re not to keep others out. I do that well enough in just being there, being a forgotten. I make up roles in my head, and I’m some type of twenty-year-old but the mask I love the most is one of a fourteen-year-old girl, when her brother was still alive and she wasn’t so begrudging in a role she was never meant to play.

Nobody missed Ruth, and nobody misses Ruth. Two forms, two figures, one body, and we both

die.

You’ve got another thing coming, black heart.

Last Edit: Jun 5, 2021 19:17:52 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Mar 8, 2017 8:56:35 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Mar 8, 2017 8:56:35 GMT -5

r u t h .

~~July, 68th Games.~~

Walking on broken glass.

It used to be stable ground, holy and untouched. But months passed and cracks showed and our first death smashed that safety net, and now all we can do is try and avoid the shards.

I had to pull a sliver from my heel because the year after Laila left I refused to wear shoes to the Reaping. I used to tiptoe, pretend that if I was quiet and out of sight, I was untouchable.

I must have stomped that year, but it made no difference – the ground was already cracked. I spent the night pulling skin from my right foot until it hurt to walk – I made myself limp for a week whilst I slept with a pile of dead skin beneath my pillow.

Today I’m tiptoeing, wearing shoes and white ribbons in my black hair and a dress, ripped and faded and all I’ll ever own. Six and eight, sixty eight.

The 68th Reaping.

There’s some wind of a deja vu and I can’t explain why the mist tickling my face feels like a forgotten friend.

We walk, glide, like a cloud, a breeze, a puff of smoke. Single filed or grouped, hands grasped or loose fingers, a family of Sycamores or doomed souls; both.

And then there’s a separation and a group is split, split again, split thrice and once more until I'm surrounded by glassy eyes and blank faces and it feels just like suffocation.

Silence. Drowning. I could well be dead, where I stand, and the world wouldn’t even

blink.

~~‘Ladies first! Patricia Valfierno! Blaire Sycamore!’~~

‘Males first!’

Beat.

‘Blaire Sycamore!’

Beat.

‘Patricia Valfierno!’

Beat.

~~Does it always happen that fast?~~

He’s already on that stage, wide-eyed with a ruffled fringe falling over the left side of his face. He should have come to me and had me cut his hair before today, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Gives him something to conceal him from death – a curtain to hide behind, for now.

And then there’s a flash of red, and it’s rage. Wrath. Anger. A flood, burning through my veins and crawling up my throat and –

‘I volunteer!’

– the red is replaced with black, just.

Waves of black, pinned back by two white ribbons and the shattered glass floor is still casting broken reflections around the Town Square, but I don’t tiptoe. Faintly, there’s registered pain in my mind of the fragments surely piercing my skin, but when I come to stand beside Blaire and look down at my feet, there is no red.

All we see is black, and a face as white as the walls of a house I’ll never see again.

I don’t know what hurts more – the reality of death crashing down around me, so suddenly, or the furious flames of betrayal and “why, Ruth” in the eyes of the only person who ever cared about me.

I couldn’t live without him, I’ll tell myself this is why and hope it’s enough for strength. For forgiveness. For overcoming this new pain residing in my heart, his right there with me.

~~July, 69th Games.~~

Here we go again.

I would have thought death would have stopped surprising me, but I guess my judgement has never been perfect. Somehow it still touches me with taloned claws, even when there’s darkness residing permanently in my heart.

Blaire died. And I’m still here.

And it’s just another Reaping, and there’s a space by my side where he would have stood as we marched on to jackpot death. Now, there’s nothing to soothe the clamminess of my left hand, and I can’t help my fingers from being outstretched. Waiting for that right hand chain that’s not coming.

He’s never coming back.

I just feel numb.

Cold.

As if nothing in the world could hurt me –

‘Ladies first!

Ruth Sycamore!’

– yeah, right.

I’m forced to my feet – I don’t know when I fell to my knees. I don’t know if it was out of shock, or anger, or sadness, or disbelief. Or something as simple as nonchalance.

Of course.

And there are eyes on me, and faces register shock and anger and sadness and disbelief, and of course, nonchalance, because of course, the Sycamore name carries a cursed story they’ve all heard before, blasted through tinny televisions as they listen to false Capitol hope that this year we’ll come back home, finally.

Maybe, for once, I’m not just a face in the crowd. But it’s not the freedom feeling I thought it would be.

I feel trapped. Like an outcast, I’m held on a pedestal and scrutinised from every angle, and I’ve never wished for shadows more than I do right now.

Please.

Get me down.

Get me out of here.

Of course.

There’s nobody to save me, just like nobody was there to save him. I guess I deserve this.

~~July, 69th Games.~~

He’s gone.

A year passes so quickly when you spend it in mourning.

Grief is a cycle that never ends, constantly revolving, a track on loop.

I don’t think anybody cared.

Maybe that’s why my heart is so insistent on living in misery and pain.

The morning of the 69th reaping, and I’m throwing up.

Waves of nausea flooding my veins, reminding me of the day I found out that was really it, he’s gone, he’s not coming back.

Knocking on the door.

Get off the floor, Ruth.

Nobody cares but me and I don’t think that’s fair.

Standing in a crowd of silence, staring straight ahead and blinking sure tears from my eyes.

This place is always going to bring back painful memories.

I’ll never be free.

‘Ladies first!

Ruth Sycamore!’

Of course.

I’m frozen in place, waiting for someone to push me forwards, onto my death.

But hands don’t come.

I don’t get it.

‘Ruth Sycamore!’

I raise a shy hand.

Stupid girl, why would you do that?

You were free, you know?

Nobody knew you.

You could have slipped away.

Because nobody cares enough to bother with a troubled soul like yours.

Sycamore isn’t a name.

It’s a tree with dying roots.

Finally, hands on my wrists and my feet dig into the ground, some feeble protest I know is useless.

I want to scream at them all

THIS ISN’T FAIR

MY BROTHER DIED A YEAR AGO

WHY DON’T YOU CARE

MY TWIN BROTHER

CAN’T YOU SEE WE’RE ALL FUCKING CURSED

SOMEBODY SAVE US

SOMEBODY SAVE ME

but it doesn’t matter.

It never did.

I close my eyes in time with the locking latch of a door.

No pity.

No shock.

No prayers.

I am nobody.

I am Ruth.

I am dead.

October, 72nd Games.

‘Ruth! ~~Sycamore?~~ Wake up!’

Yeah.

Yeah, I’m still alive.

Fuck.

Last Edit: Jun 5, 2021 19:14:11 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.

ines izar d11a 🖤 cait
Veteran Member

1,399 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Apr 19, 2024 8:33:05 GMT -5

if looks could kill

silver .`. the death of ruth sycamore .`. [wip] Jan 22, 2018 8:07:38 GMT -5

Post by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait on Jan 22, 2018 8:07:38 GMT -5

r u t h .

Is it better to be remembered or forgotten?

A question rattling around in my barren wasteland of a mind, one that does not wilt to silence and demands an answer I’m not ready to give. One is all I know; one is all I’ve ever wanted, deep down, locked away in a bleak corner of my being. I ponder existentialism in rituals: is it better to be alive than dead? I’ve ping-ponged that one all my life. After all, I never asked to be born, and to be saved from this underwhelming sense of being would surely be a sweeter luxury than the same routine of the same bleak circumstances.

But to be castrated from life – to be left stranded in a womb of darkness – means to not be anything. Not a painter, not an introvert, not a survivor. Not a sister. Are all of those titles worth it? Do they make up for the hard-hitting truth that I never wanted any of this in the first place?

I’m slipping.

Life and death are linked. They hold hands and dance across the sky and embrace each other before a goodbye kiss seals fate. Close the book, let the moon rise, for in the morning we’ll use new eyes to assess the damage of this never-ending cycle.

I’ll leave, eventually, and maybe I’ll fulfil a deep-root desire of a threadbare existence. I can’t see it yet, but it’s there beneath the murky surface of reflection. I can feel it in my heart, like a moth’s wing slowly quivering in the icy ruins. I tried to glue the pieces back together, but they are merely shards these days. A minefield. Nothing will survive the carnage.

Remember me.

Know the name, know the face, know the tragedies that befell us so that we may have the chance of living in a world left behind – a world we never roamed. Let the name slip from tongues when they play the reruns of Games where our family was split open, but never down the middle. Let the bedsheets never lose their musty smell, shrouded in grass clippings and baby powder. Think of the strength and the alternate world always lurking just beneath bitten down fingernails – a word always seen from the outside, looking in.

Forget me.

Don’t let the mind second guess or ask questions, “wasn’t there another daughter, who lived beneath the Sycamore tree?” Do not linger on the syncopated syllables of a stolen namesake. Accept the way death will play out for us all – that none of it meant anything, that nobody is special, that our stories all crumble into ruins. Move on with the ordinary, which it has always been - you can live without me, and I'll let you.

Which is the lesser of two evils?

.
.

Nobody remembers him. His belongings were buried with his body and his old shared bedroom holds no trace of the kid he once was. That’s all he was to the world: a kid, a sacrifice. Another face in the sky for another year. Not worth a memory.

.
.

Nobody remembers him. The world was better off without a man who beat his children in his times of mourning. We let that figure die the day we signed our surnames over to the orphanage we’ve all outgrown.

.
.

Nobody remembers her. She was kept alive by three people – one of them missing, presumed dead; one of them dead, dead, dead; one of them almost there, almost dead, on the doormat of Heaven, please let me in. I’m ready to be with you, my ray of light that will never have a face.

.
.

It’s easy to forget me.

I’m aware of my place in this world.

I know there’s nothing here anymore, if there ever really was.

Truly, I think, I want to be content with living arbitrarily – taking the most well-worn paths and conforming into an idea of humbled living, domesticated bliss, a world of grey. A simple life of harmony. It works for everyone. Why not me?

Why should I be special? Why should I have the right to leave a mark on the Earth?

I’m ready to be forgotten. I swear it.

~~That’s why I left, after all.~~

.
.

Nobody remembers her.

Nobody remembers her.

Nobody remembers her.

I say these words as a mantra in time with steps down a cobblestone pathway.

Nobody remembers him, or her, or him

or her, now

forever, always.

~~I’m okay.~~

I’m

not

okay.

Because I suffer, like everyone, and I breathe in and breathe out and I eat and drink and shit just like everyone. Nobody is special, but god dammit, I didn’t suffer to be scrapped without a second thought.

Fingers dipped in red, I drag them along the brick walls my feet have brought me to. Long, ugly, messy strokes of dripping paint, already drying on my hands, so I work quickly, apply more of the liquid soul:

R U T H.

I’m such a fucking child.

DON’T LET ME FADE AWAY.

I will linger like a ghost of the summer winds, billowing in your dining room and gently shaking the curtains in the afternoon. You will see me in the stars, when you remember talk of horoscopes and think with fondness of Pisces, the match made in celestial existence.

You will look to the abandoned corners of a ruined town and find me in all the deepest, darkest, most hidden places. Tucked away, out of sight, like the world never saw a trace of Ruth Sycamore. Ruth, her long black hair, her messy bangs swept aside, her scattered paints. You will see me in the darkness of a room, when you’re suspended between sleep and waking and you feel the stir of something you once knew, something undoubtedly beautiful, no matter how many times you tried to convince yourself otherwise. I’ll be there. Please let me in.

I collapse. The weight of it all is too much to bear. Heavy.

Sometimes I forget that there’s more to my world than me. There are real, tangible lives still fighting against all the same odds that I’ve faced, but no. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry, for it.

In those rare moments of unyielding pain (but believe me, the pain is a constant; the hope is a blessing), I’ll allow myself the luxury of the fantasy of importance. We all want to be loved. We all want to be special.

To the lives of those I’ve known and loved and missed and stayed up with until my eyes became too heavy to do anything other than slip shut: I don’t want to be forgotten.

Please, stay with me.

~~I’ll be around.~~

Last Edit: Jan 25, 2018 9:09:41 GMT -5 by ines izar d11a 🖤 cait

i always used to be into writing sort of modern abstract
lyricism stuff (that were like) slight vague indications of a feeling.