{ make my heart s h a k e } finn & kit
Dec 26, 2017 19:04:34 GMT -5
Post by calla on Dec 26, 2017 19:04:34 GMT -5
Anxiety is the sound of lockers slamming, metal grinding against metal like a pair of weapons clashing. Footsteps echoing, stampeding through the halls, crashing against the walls like thunder. Voices ring on a loop track, tinny recordings of parties and weekend plans on playback until the tape runs out, spilling to the floor in glossy memories and dark shadows.
Standing in the cacophony of noise, fumbling with a lock, it takes three tries for the code to finally break, 7-31-17 illegibly smudged on a palm in cheap blue ink. Paper-bound books and dog-eared pages fall from the wall to my arms in a cascade.
The ones I actually need are at the back and I guess that's just life or something.
Already counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until the day is over and classes haven't even started yet.
It's already been the morning to end all mornings, Liza had to leave early, rushing out of the house with some throwaway line, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake because no one fixes problems like she does and somehow I still don't know how to tie a tie. A halfhearted knot, some kind of hand-me-down noose, and I can feel myself standing out in the sea of class. Shoes three sizes too big, all thanks to Walt, newspaper crammed in the toes and a hole in the sleeve of my sweater, ( "you're such a worrier" )
worn away by idle fingers.
( A playback loop of shiny new books and cashmere, of healthy lungs and grand empty rooms. )
The bell rings, sound cutting through the air like a gunshot. Fight or flight kicking in because I'm gonna be late and shoot shoot shoot s h i t -
The locker slams shut, crumpling Modern Medicinal Treatments and their Advantages, and I guess I can't bring myself to care anymore. Because everything used to be pressed into folders, sorted numerically then alphabetically, preciously preserved in plastic for later, whenever later was.
And then it all sort of shifted, changed like the seasons, summer to fall, and the leaves molted like lab reports and essay papers, floating down to litter the floorboards.
But the bell's gone and the locker door is still shut tight, paper trapped between the cheap metal so I just let it be. Rushing down the hall, frantic, because time seems to go funny when you're in a hurry and first period waits for no one.
My shoulder hits something solid, feet slipping on linoleum floors, moving like a slow motion film, grainy and a little blurred around the edges. Tripping over my feet again and again, a busted vinyl that won't stop skipping and who thought newspaper was a good idea?
Papers fly everywhere, a startled flock of birds taking flight and then falling like snowflakes, a lens flares and it's enough to make my vision white.
( Dante used to throw paper airplanes at me, folded up notebook paper that he tore out sheet by sheet.
I still don't know if he wanted a landing strip or a target. )
Down on the floor, shuffling the papers together because these are the ones that I actually need. Fluorescent lights flicker overheat, keeping time with a heartbeat and a "sorry, sorry, sorry" said with my head down.
Standing in the cacophony of noise, fumbling with a lock, it takes three tries for the code to finally break, 7-31-17 illegibly smudged on a palm in cheap blue ink. Paper-bound books and dog-eared pages fall from the wall to my arms in a cascade.
The ones I actually need are at the back and I guess that's just life or something.
Already counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until the day is over and classes haven't even started yet.
It's already been the morning to end all mornings, Liza had to leave early, rushing out of the house with some throwaway line, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake because no one fixes problems like she does and somehow I still don't know how to tie a tie. A halfhearted knot, some kind of hand-me-down noose, and I can feel myself standing out in the sea of class. Shoes three sizes too big, all thanks to Walt, newspaper crammed in the toes and a hole in the sleeve of my sweater, ( "you're such a worrier" )
worn away by idle fingers.
( A playback loop of shiny new books and cashmere, of healthy lungs and grand empty rooms. )
The bell rings, sound cutting through the air like a gunshot. Fight or flight kicking in because I'm gonna be late and shoot shoot shoot s h i t -
The locker slams shut, crumpling Modern Medicinal Treatments and their Advantages, and I guess I can't bring myself to care anymore. Because everything used to be pressed into folders, sorted numerically then alphabetically, preciously preserved in plastic for later, whenever later was.
And then it all sort of shifted, changed like the seasons, summer to fall, and the leaves molted like lab reports and essay papers, floating down to litter the floorboards.
But the bell's gone and the locker door is still shut tight, paper trapped between the cheap metal so I just let it be. Rushing down the hall, frantic, because time seems to go funny when you're in a hurry and first period waits for no one.
My shoulder hits something solid, feet slipping on linoleum floors, moving like a slow motion film, grainy and a little blurred around the edges. Tripping over my feet again and again, a busted vinyl that won't stop skipping and who thought newspaper was a good idea?
Papers fly everywhere, a startled flock of birds taking flight and then falling like snowflakes, a lens flares and it's enough to make my vision white.
( Dante used to throw paper airplanes at me, folded up notebook paper that he tore out sheet by sheet.
I still don't know if he wanted a landing strip or a target. )
Down on the floor, shuffling the papers together because these are the ones that I actually need. Fluorescent lights flicker overheat, keeping time with a heartbeat and a "sorry, sorry, sorry" said with my head down.
♡ ♡ ♡
