blank ; d3
Jul 9, 2016 2:23:52 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jul 9, 2016 2:23:52 GMT -5
B L A N K
My mother always loved the music.
The music, my hair, every quirk and kink of it; my mother loved many things. She had a large heart, enough room to love each and every one of us Broker boys and she kissed my scrapped knuckles and bloody knees every time I fell. "Bridger," she'd say, "when are you gonna learn something?" And I shrugged and pulled at my over sized sweater and said, "what am I learning?"
And she taught me music, because she loved it and I loved learning anything I could and it's not worth much. Piano strokes and old croaky guitars, my brothers and sisters didn't have much time for it and neither did my mother. We were a big family, y'know, somewhere between floating and sinking and we brushed our teeth with orange peels and I didn't think anything else of it.
It was never something that important for a while, I did it because it meant the world to my mother only and I grinned through orange peels to make her happy -- she's my mother. What else could I do, y'know? She loved the lot of us and I loved her for it, and for everything she taught me I swore I'd learn to love like her and I don't think I ever did. Not her laugh or smile or passion and compassion, everything she did was large, like a Leo. With the mane and all, but I'm not like that. Of those Broker boys, I was the runt, from the beginning to the end for forever and always. I never had it.
"Bridger," she'd say, her hands in my hair and my eyes staring at her eyebrow, "you've gotta learn a thing eventually." And I don't do anything but shrug my shoulders. She expected the world of me, but all I had was orange peels and the music.
And I brought Emeli home for the first time to meet her and mother broke a smile larger than any tangerine, citrus and summer and every thing warm and it was the biggest hug I've ever witnessed, mother smothered her and her mane and whispered a thing or two in her ear and all I caught was, "he's a softie, be careful with him," and I felt like glass. Delicate china in a bullshop, those Broker boys and their loud mouths and hands and I was glued along the edges by maternal kisses in ways I never realized. "Bridger," Emeli said at night, her tender skin in the moonlight and I catch myself without glasses on -- I can't see who she is or who I am in the mirror. In my glass reality, I don't know who that twin is.
("I love you.")
But my mother never taught me to love like that. My mother taught me every question she could, and I learned the answers myself in every way I could. Emeli held my hand the first time at a pop concert, techno beats and pink bass eating at my skin and I liked it enough. She kissed my cheek, "I love you," she'd say in my ear, the dim light and dead energy and I liked it enough.
And my Broker brothers moved on. Moved on and out until I was the only one left in that bullshop; my mother held my hand. Bridger, she didn't say it out loud, and I felt just as empty as before. I'm sorry, she'd say, if her pride wasn't as big as her eyes or my hair and I wouldn't say anything in return -- sixteen years old but I'd always felt the same. Emeli was seventeen, and I knew everything about her. Seventeen, with five years in a sentence. Taken to the detention center for arson and I hardly felt anything different; distance was meant for toothpaste and tangerines, but I wore orange peels as smiles remember.
It always felt that way.
The music, my hair, every quirk and kink of it; my mother loved many things. She had a large heart, enough room to love each and every one of us Broker boys and she kissed my scrapped knuckles and bloody knees every time I fell. "Bridger," she'd say, "when are you gonna learn something?" And I shrugged and pulled at my over sized sweater and said, "what am I learning?"
And she taught me music, because she loved it and I loved learning anything I could and it's not worth much. Piano strokes and old croaky guitars, my brothers and sisters didn't have much time for it and neither did my mother. We were a big family, y'know, somewhere between floating and sinking and we brushed our teeth with orange peels and I didn't think anything else of it.
It was never something that important for a while, I did it because it meant the world to my mother only and I grinned through orange peels to make her happy -- she's my mother. What else could I do, y'know? She loved the lot of us and I loved her for it, and for everything she taught me I swore I'd learn to love like her and I don't think I ever did. Not her laugh or smile or passion and compassion, everything she did was large, like a Leo. With the mane and all, but I'm not like that. Of those Broker boys, I was the runt, from the beginning to the end for forever and always. I never had it.
"Bridger," she'd say, her hands in my hair and my eyes staring at her eyebrow, "you've gotta learn a thing eventually." And I don't do anything but shrug my shoulders. She expected the world of me, but all I had was orange peels and the music.
And I brought Emeli home for the first time to meet her and mother broke a smile larger than any tangerine, citrus and summer and every thing warm and it was the biggest hug I've ever witnessed, mother smothered her and her mane and whispered a thing or two in her ear and all I caught was, "he's a softie, be careful with him," and I felt like glass. Delicate china in a bullshop, those Broker boys and their loud mouths and hands and I was glued along the edges by maternal kisses in ways I never realized. "Bridger," Emeli said at night, her tender skin in the moonlight and I catch myself without glasses on -- I can't see who she is or who I am in the mirror. In my glass reality, I don't know who that twin is.
("I love you.")
But my mother never taught me to love like that. My mother taught me every question she could, and I learned the answers myself in every way I could. Emeli held my hand the first time at a pop concert, techno beats and pink bass eating at my skin and I liked it enough. She kissed my cheek, "I love you," she'd say in my ear, the dim light and dead energy and I liked it enough.
And my Broker brothers moved on. Moved on and out until I was the only one left in that bullshop; my mother held my hand. Bridger, she didn't say it out loud, and I felt just as empty as before. I'm sorry, she'd say, if her pride wasn't as big as her eyes or my hair and I wouldn't say anything in return -- sixteen years old but I'd always felt the same. Emeli was seventeen, and I knew everything about her. Seventeen, with five years in a sentence. Taken to the detention center for arson and I hardly felt anything different; distance was meant for toothpaste and tangerines, but I wore orange peels as smiles remember.
It always felt that way.
bridger broker
district three, eighteen
'blank'
district three, eighteen
'blank'
