weak to my knees { maxen & bri }
Jan 9, 2021 17:18:38 GMT -5
Post by 🌱 kaitlin. on Jan 9, 2021 17:18:38 GMT -5
— brielle prescott —
Maxen is standing there, drinking out of a bottle in a very suspicious paper bag, and I am thinking about murdering him. I know that's probably not something that I should admit to, that I should talk about how grief is settling into my bones like rot and how this is the day of his death and how I'm not in my right state of mind. Normally, I'd make every excuse in the book to make myself smaller, kinder, softer. I'd ruin myself to make sure I was the victim. The wound or the knife, the wound or the knife, the wound or the knife—which one do I want to be? "You," I say, walking right up to him and jabbing him in the chest with my finger. "You, asshole. What fucking right do you have to walk around like that, today of all days." I don't care that there's probably smudged mascara under my eyes, that each of my eye lashes is definitely stuck together with salt from my stupid tears, don't care that he probably saw me walking down the street with me arms crossed against my chest in some desperate attempt to feel held, don't care that he's Maxen and he could probably pummel into the ground me if he wanted to and that he probably does want to. My dad died on this day too long ago, and I want to rip his throat out. "Go home, Maxen. No one wants to see you." |
