gage prewett | district seven | cb fin

g a g e

sleeplessly embracing, butterflies and needles
line my seamed-up joints, encased in case I need it
in my stomach, for my heart, chain mail
h u n g e r   o f   t h e   p i n e

He was a wonder of nerve endings, synapses, and broke down dreams. He had the right to remain, if that was what he so desired.

He had the right to disappear.

"You can't like those," a woman said, fanning smoke from her face. He smirked, humorless, though his gaze was more trained on the cigarette in his hand than the woman. Colorless world he was living in, wasn't it?

"You can't know whether I do or not."

She scoffed, gave him an expression he was accustomed to. Something along the lines of hatred. People seemed to make that judgement for him rather quickly, he had noticed.

He could have extinguished it, smashed the cherry out with the heel of his boot and called it a day. That's what someone who still tried might have done. Instead, he took another drag.

"There's a whole park here," he grumbled, motioning with his free hand. The words that followed were not spoken out loud, but still understood with clarity: so go away.

She pulled her coat closer, called the name of whichever child was hers, and they walked away. Damn, he thought, easy as that.

He made a career of pushing people away, a lifetime's achievement if you asked him. People were vile, usually, and not worth his time. It was not pessimistic; it was honest. Frankly, he had come to enjoy the discomfort his presence brought to others, and until someone came in and changed his mind, well, he was content to smoke cigarettes around people. He was content to do whatever he could to just be left alone.

I’m there for you, be there for me
I’ll hum the song the soldiers sing
as they march outside our window
h u n g e r   o f   t h e   p i n e

song: hunger of the pine