kiss us better {rave}

The air is always thick in the midst of the fall.

Like glass-kissed gunshot wounds against a fragile skull -- the bullet wounds leave me dyed black and blue. There pins and thorns kiss my brow as light tears open the gaps and creaks through the windows sat above the shelf. Streaks of golden-brown wrap in the dents within my knuckles and the scars tracing my palms are lined with fire and kissed with bruises, I wince at the touch but numb to the familiarity. 

My lips part and the air weighs ten tons, the pounding within my temples doesn't quite mirror a fight but bares close resemblance to the aftermath of intoxication. I couldn't handle the presence of sobriety after all -- I was supposed to change, I did change. Locks sat on the box and I didn't dare spin the wheel and stake my life on the results for over a week.

It was too idealistic, too perfect to be true; that I could keep a lock on Pandora's box and turn a heavy shoulder to temptation when my hands shook and the shadow of withdrawal loomed. I'm not strong. I'm just- just-

(-there)

Everything hurts.

The light breaks through the window sitting above the shelf that I do not recognize and the room fades from black and the unseen skeletons of two dead boys release my wrists and leave me to wander vagabond across the aftermath of intoxication and I am spiraling through stages of pain, wandering -falling- through destinations of agony. From the throbbing of the clicking in my knuckles to the dull ache in the side of my neck and what can only be bruises against my rib cage.

(one more slam and his boot print is left on my ribs and all)

I am forced to stifle a groan, I don't remember fighting last night.

This isn't the simple aftermath of fists cracking against a nose or falling in slow motion with nothing but the ground to catch me. The solar flare in my temples and the thunderclaps at the front of my forehead are more than the result of a simple hangover or a knock to the head. Everything hurts and I'm vagabond through stages of pain; from my temples down to my groin and thighs.

Running a sleeve across my eyes, attempts to clear my mind are fruitless. I only remember the bartender and older men and the occasional 'are you sure you should be drinking?' But getting the drink anyway because they care more about profit than age.

(shots... rewind)

And then glimpses of golden hair, red lips and white teeth sunken into my lip and-

(movement)

I shift, sitting up and pulling the sheets further above my waist (this aren't my sheets, this isn't even my fucking bed, this-)

I'm no longer looking at a memory of red lips and blonde hair because when I blink she's right here right in front of me and I know that if I could hold a hand out I would be touching her -- she's real but I almost don't believe it because this isn't what I usually do, I don't go to strangers houses, I don't spend the night with strangers, not usually, not often.

Her name may as well be fading pencil lines across a map because I can't put my finger on it.

Nerves wrap knots within my chest -- a smile plays across my lips because that's the only thing I can really think to do when the air feels heavy in the aftermath of the high. "Do... I know you?" It's all I can do to resist the urge to wince when the window weeps light against skin that only knows how to hurt.