C H U R C H I L L. d2. fin

fox Graphics 1,363 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 25, 2024 12:23:42 GMT -5 but a butt ?	C H U R C H I L L. d2. fin Feb 27, 2017 0:11:31 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by fox on Feb 27, 2017 0:11:31 GMT -5 heey it's a nerd churchill salvatore; 17
	Last Edit: May 11, 2017 22:07:48 GMT -5 by fox

fox
Graphics

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last seen Apr 25, 2024 12:23:42 GMT -5

but a butt ?

C H U R C H I L L. d2. fin Feb 27, 2017 0:49:41 GMT -5

Quote

Post by fox on Feb 27, 2017 0:49:41 GMT -5

C H U R C H I L L

THIS IS THE CHURCH,

of blind eye; marble lens.

Stuff we don’t look for in the oxblood. We're like gluing gemstones on infected cuts, rubbing in glitter, a whatever and a hahaha.

On school desks, I carve fucked up
fucked up
fucked up
on the backsides.

A memory to trace, a tick in our optic nerve.

I used to wear glasses – since the eighth grade, you see – but I’d leave them everywhere, get bored and doodle something rose-coloured on the glass. Lose them and break them, and things look better blurry anyways, soften everything wrong with our vision, our life.

This is the gospel of what we don’t talk about;
– everything,
– whatever you call the opposite of shit ? Ha.

And I remember, stirring tea, spoon clinking against ceramics, the steam rising before Sasha’s face.

This is why you want a name, the crest of association crowned with dark laurels like the hair we grow, a pair of scissors to shape what’s both priceless and abundant. This is our garden of inheritance. And once, when a kid threw down my stuff in the schoolyard, tugged on my collar, spat in my face – because I’m soft, my parents say, I don’t try too hard, and blood hurts my hands the way it rusts in winter –

I told him, don’t touch me, a Salvatore,
less you catch our disease.
His hold loosened under the fleece of my name. And then,

I punched him in the face.

Oh boy,
this is the religion like Latin,
lost language for our vernacular anatomy.

There was a time where I tried to be ironic or something, emo as hell, wore black all the time, bought cheap spray paint and wrote “fuck my name” on building walls – and it’s funny ‘cause it’s all that holds us together these days.

But being an edgelord is, like, hard and I’m not sure how most of the fam does it. So now I paint landscapes, write stupid stuff like “fuck my name – I hate being allergic to cute cats,” in alleyways, some secrets only insects over the aerosol are allowed read. I wear black only most of the time, buy Sasha what he wants, stay out of Cora’s way, remember that Cecil’s supposed to be like hot shit or something, but I never talk to him.

Maybe we all want simple things.

– I still leave him gifts in the pages of my notebooks, wrapping paper of pencil drawings, because Cecil’s least to know it’s me. Eldest – same with Anselm, but we don't talk about what's different,
(fucked up
fucked up
fucked up),

and I guess he's got it bad.

This is the translation, the rudimentary dictionary – how we communicate within an elegant, lofty language, a mother tongue that I do not understand. I give him a wooden box, I give him a painted pinecone, I give him a rope bracelet and a wolf on a matchbox by his bedside. 'Cause this is all that we've got when blood is our only inheritance.

I never talk to him,
but I haven’t found my shit in the trash yet.

So there.

Now, this is the sacrament that shows us what we'll never be
(what we already are);
we're at war with some other kind of sybaritic lavishness, Rathbones, money, power, money, power – but we'll never be like them, our fam says. Seems like the same patterns, same bullshit, the same kind of fucked up to me. But I guess I never understood the elegance in stuff like this.

How fucking sublime, then. This falling apart.

And so, this is why when Sasha asks what happens if we associate with a Rathbone, two cups of tea and the morning mist, I say

haha, I’ll kill you first

– before the poison of our blood curdles. I peel him an apple with a knife, stab it through the stem, and I give it to him by the handle of the blade. I remember all the times I've worn these letters like something dented but gold, all the secret places I've screamed in, broke earthly things, cursed and tried to be someone else – brutally, simply, fucked-uply.

I have cobweb scars on my hands, on porcelain.

I've never been all that delicate with my name. And I never had an eye for this kind of grace. But I was never anything but a Salvatore in the end, nothing but Churchill -- blind eye, marble lens,

stuff they don't look for in the oxblood.

It is what it is.

So whatever.

So there.

...

“So don’t get caught.”

Last Edit: Jul 8, 2017 14:45:51 GMT -5 by fox

fox Graphics 1,363 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Apr 25, 2024 12:23:42 GMT -5 but a butt ?	C H U R C H I L L. d2. fin May 11, 2017 22:22:03 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by fox on May 11, 2017 22:22:03 GMT -5 holy moly did mmm

lance Librarian 3,638 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him/His last seen Apr 25, 2024 21:21:23 GMT -5 gay and chaotic? call it gayos	C H U R C H I L L. d2. fin May 11, 2017 23:54:25 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by lance on May 11, 2017 23:54:25 GMT -5 mmmmmmmMMMMMMM this bio is too hot (hot damn) to handle. no doubt he'll be a fabulous addition to the family. ACCEPTED!
	credit to darsypoo uwu credit to fireflyz! credit to stare!