wingclipper } perry + abraham blitz
Jan 1, 2017 14:22:13 GMT -5
Post by fox on Jan 1, 2017 14:22:13 GMT -5
p e r r y
"it's time to grow up, perry"
his mom says, confiscates his cigarettes -- she checks his pockets and the cuffs of his sleeves, coming away with half-another-pack in her hands. but he still has the lighter in the sock drawer of his room, and he still has an itch to sedate, burn, bury, a recklessness breathed irresponsibly.
maybe, he supposes he's not like abraham who dresses nicely and is always there -- hollow but present. a brother who is all perfect words. nor is he merlin, fourteen and young and forgivable still. he should’ve learned how to be a zodiia a long time ago, but he is still here with holes in his coat, with forgetting to return home for dinner, with his lofty rooftop views.
"it's time to grow up," and she sounds worn, the ache of her voice mellowing to echoes of the same sentiments, repeated again and again and sticking like band-aids before falling off to dirt and scrapes and hiding in the forest. and he wants to tell her, so badly --
"i'm trying to."
but there is no room for the wind in his lungs here, smoke curling down a windpipe and making scrap homes in his stomach.
his mom says, confiscates his cigarettes -- she checks his pockets and the cuffs of his sleeves, coming away with half-another-pack in her hands. but he still has the lighter in the sock drawer of his room, and he still has an itch to sedate, burn, bury, a recklessness breathed irresponsibly.
maybe, he supposes he's not like abraham who dresses nicely and is always there -- hollow but present. a brother who is all perfect words. nor is he merlin, fourteen and young and forgivable still. he should’ve learned how to be a zodiia a long time ago, but he is still here with holes in his coat, with forgetting to return home for dinner, with his lofty rooftop views.
"it's time to grow up," and she sounds worn, the ache of her voice mellowing to echoes of the same sentiments, repeated again and again and sticking like band-aids before falling off to dirt and scrapes and hiding in the forest. and he wants to tell her, so badly --
"i'm trying to."
but there is no room for the wind in his lungs here, smoke curling down a windpipe and making scrap homes in his stomach.
