sylvana ; three

It's such an easy thing, a spirit like this. My mother said I could fall in love faster than my brother could fall asleep and I took it as a challenge: orange skies, the smell of coffee, rusting fences and early morning train whistles. Girls with short hair, over sized sweaters, my father's coffee-stained teeth, old nightmares Some times you just gotta learn there's nothing to fear about them -- some times, there's nothing to do but to be. 

With a kindergarten soul I was always uhhh, stupid. The younger of two spirits, my brother never smiled but I had my mother's teeth- at first, the coffee addiction kicks my ass just the same. I would sit on my father's lap, the smell of java burnt into his skin and it was the first feeling that felt like home, like, I don't know, a stain on a cozy ratmas sweater. Four year old fingers digging into coiled brunette chin hair and giggling as he made stupid noises, it's one of the things I miss the most about home.

"Aye, ma'am-?"

"Oh shi-" sometimes I forget I can't go back.

("Can you repeat that, sorry,")

I hold my breath from peppermint and chocolate breezes, the soft sound of coffee hitting paper easier than rain hitting december rooftops. A smile, my hat crooked and apron hanging loose around my neck - who cares, huh - I mean, like besides myself. Or maybe like, anybody but me? I run this joint, the scent of caramel practically in my acne scars; being the boss is wild. Between coffee burns and rude white kids, I could honestly start a bar fight. 

HA, jokes, I don't wanna like, die or something. 

Good for business, being just tiny little Sylvana, equipped with baby hands and tiny socks, it's kinda lame. Just being this small ass nerd. I look at dude bro at the country, strumming his fingers against the counter, the streetlight outside flickering behind him, burning triangles on the walls around it -- "aye, Vincent!" I know this guy! Sadly! Oh well!  

We had middle school hearts, bleeding and smiling and riding bikes through busy alley street ways, we would pass notes between clumsy hands in the hallways. Stupid things, angel wings, talking about ugly boys and chemistry, her name was Clementine. They're siblings. 

Eh I guess it's easier not to know sometimes. 

Ink sketches, hasty scribbles and I could hear her laugh in imaginary ideas -- every black line she wrote was meant for me, were mine for as long as she meat them and I remember a simple day. Another simple smile, a smile Sylvana, the sound of unfolding wrinkled paper and the way her hand slipped when she wrote do you like me and how I threw the letter away and punched her in the face. 

"Oh yeah, you're -" a pause, "Sylvia."

Dude. It's on my name tag. 

"Definitely."

And it's so strange to see her in his eyes, Vincent's lip shape, the color of his hair -- I punched that bitch so hard. Playground kid, her hand in mine and it's already been the last time, hmm. "Have a good day," and I hate it, kinda. He walks his own way and I've had a desperate heart since my mother first kissed my forehead and it's hard to know that I've already left behind a life of closed doors. I rest my cheek on my elbows, Vincent sips coffee in the corner of our little shop - rain continues to dance on. 

It blends, like water on paper -- my thoughts bleeding into the back of my eyelids and blinking eyelashes; August. The month with a gun. My father holds my hand, places an old sweater on me as I sleep on the couch. My mother cuts my hair -- cut. Peppermint bangs, August cuts his hair the same and I smile. We move on. 

It's harder. 

God, I miss them so much.

I can't focus on it -- the good, the bad, August, Clementine, my parents, java, myself. It's just been me, just simple Sylvana for so long it's hard not to miss them sometimes. August holds my hand, warm and sweaty and the creases in his lines with mine and if he could burn I swear he would.

("I love you--")

And I tried every bit of my oversized soul to forgive them, sitting in front of an open fire with the wounds in my skin the only thing to my name -- I love you, I love you I love you I loveIloveIlove. My father kissed my forehead and my mother whispered in my ear, 
be safe. 

A whisper, a haunting, the gentle humming of rain and I remember.

"It's okay," I told him through clenched teeth and hallway hugs, his scratchy sweater digging into my cheek and I shouldn't of ever lied but it's hard for a soul as soft as this one to watch my brother wilt -- my mother always said it. Always said I would fall in love first, that I would be the sweetest little wife and I never found much interest in it. 

They
just
keep
happening --

She held my hand for the last time, a brown suitcase in her hand and the rest a fire, lockets, photos, brothers and sisters, my father left before her. He couldn't look me in the eyes, I held my brother's hand and turned my eyes to the open window. 

It's okay, I told my brother, hands huddled on the bathroom floor, owning an apartment together and little money between our names, Clementine told me I did it to myself, I smiled that simple Sylvana smile. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay -- it had to be because I knew nothing else. 

A smile, a soul.

Month with a gun -- August Anderson, an older brother, a hard soul. He never smiled as a kid, maybe that's why he's such a pessimist or something. My parents moved up state and my brother moved on, because at some point it's all you can do. Lipstick stains on empty grain mirrors, he left his things. Tight pockets, loose lips, he used to punch my shoulder a lot. He was a gang member, worked under a man I never got the name of and maybe if I were bigger I could've done something, I could've saved a boy by the name of August. 

I could have died.

I could have moved on.

But it's not that easy, you feel? I tucked my hands under my legs, biting my tongue and whispering to myself that it'll all be okay. August swore to me, red on his hands and he rubbed prints on the side of my pants,

"I'm so sorry," I tripped. 

On myself, "I'm so so sorry," it was supposed to be okay.

It is okay.

"I messed up."

("it'll be okay.")
I say, through clenched teeth.

And it was, I guess. Kinda. Not at all, huh. Grey skin and frostbite, he gave me the whole story. That a man held his collar and gave him the bullets, gave him the body and the name and I stared a man in the face, a boy I couldn't recognize and tried to think of anything but -- to think of coffee and peppermint and strawberries and he needs my help. I swallowed spit and placed the body myself, hide the body myself, buried August's past myself. 

I try not to think about it. 

But he breathed slower, placed money in my hands and swore it'd be okay but I didn't need it -- I didn't need his words or his money or his title, but I took them anyways. God, I fucked up didn't I. Just, damn, what the fuck August -- I try not to think about it but it still gives me heartburn, like I'm a good person! I would donate blood if there wasn't so much caffeine in it! 

The last time I saw August he had an orange sweater on, but he never smiled - I guess that's kinda just his thing. I hugged my brother as hard as I could, and prayed that somehow we'd make it out of it but I guess that wasn't the plans, so I did nothing but breath. A day of orange, I wanted to sit and stare at a wall for five hours, to pretend I could love that color and pretend that we'd be okay for just another twenty four hours; I should've known better. I should have but with every orange inhale is another reason I had to doubt it. 

And I wished it was easy as I could imagine it. 

A shaky hand, one silver handgun. 

One bullet, between two furred eyebrows. 

shoot --

I slip, drool down the side of my arm -- "fuck" -- my forehead hitting and bouncing the counter, fuck me. My palms rubbing against my forehead while the rain still cries outside, I'm fine. A whisper from a broken heart, a tiny barista kiss and the smell of the last bit of coffee, I hold my breath. For a second I pretend that everything is different and that it could be different, and some part of me will never admit it. But until I see my brother's avoxed face again I have to at least try. 

There's a lover's soul in my body, so I have to keep trying. 

[ firestorm ]