booker adams / d7 / cb {fin}

B o o k e r
A d a m s

I am an old soul, darling.

So, burn your clichés away to cinders, and give burial to my phoenix heart in it. Let my rebirth rise from the charred remnants of your underlying agony; let my reign be crafted upon a throne of fiery bones, each one personally donated by your skeleton.

A forest with the desire to ignite, I was wired for self-destruction. When I was thirteen, the school expelled me—on charges of arson, pyromania, torching.

Due to an array of customs, it was considered a crime to set your teacher’s dress ablaze, and preposterous to chuckle as she screams down the hallways. She would school us on equations, a board full of tomfooleries, and I simply grew tedious of her elaborations about photo-fucking-synthesis.

The gasoline sheened upon my fingers as they escort me out with roaring mockery, and a sense of abhorrence. A criminal – that one, one uttered conclusively before the institute’s doors creaked shut.

A boy of ten with an already tarnished reputation; I knew there was no great expectations awaiting an unapologetic calamity such as myself—and no kinfolks at home either, with the expectation of a sister and a brother.

Lena and Pirrip Adams, or so they were called as. We thrived and fed each other’s bellies through pickpocketing and masquerading ourselves as lost, innocent youths. From the cobblestoned streets, from the gangs, from brawls, we learnt the craft of steeling our backbones in order to endure. Our tongues, familiarized to common banters, lost their delicacy and adapted a harshness, a vulgarity. Hands shed skin for callouses to rule. 

Our home is a rundown cottage, heaped with cobwebs, the last possession of Mary and Phillip Adams—a pair that ran away from an overload of unpaid debts, unforgotten loans. 

I am imperfect, darling.
Mosaicked, at best.