first thought -- best thought; kira
Jul 1, 2017 2:12:15 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 1, 2017 2:12:15 GMT -5
K I R A
I am sick with smoke and he is lucifer whispering in my ear, three cigarettes, disappearing behind a plume of
vapour
like
– some kind of magic trick,
just a second before his lips part,
A butterfly wets it wings
into a kiss, lips soft save for some mysterious chemical hurt.
He sucks powder from my fingers, taste of solar flares. And I can feel the warmth of his tongue like the sun burning, like beach weather of a really pretty and faraway place, stinging – skin going stupidly numb at all the places that he had touched.
He touches me, and I am melting.
Whoa.
.
.
Shit, I feel like g o l d, sunshine in my tummy, sun spots on my skin, up my arm, bruising circles like fairy rings and something sweetly in my mouth. And it’s heredity maybe – maybe why I’m here, belt-grip and great – because I’ve always known of the dangerous predisposition melting into my veins, honeyed poison, in velvet consistency, something crazy and really not not not good –
But I am the sun right now.
He cuts ivory, slender-toothed, magical, a
whirlwind
all caught up, condensed, small, boiling in a spoon and rings silver strands curling into the cool air. Standby pills, crushed, screaming, I tell him kinda sloppily, accidentally, whoops, “let’s go – !!”
“You’ve got a pretty mouth,” but he says a sec late,
I forgot what I read to him, since it’s all foggy –
There’s – there’s a kiss now,
wet, heavy, a flutter of dampened wings, and I don’t like him like that I think. It sets, paper veins.
But he breathes into me and I have to inhale and we’re falling on the sidewalk, blood crashing tidelines at the syrupy edges, sea foam of glass bits; my head’s wild right now, Ripred – I think my heart is running super-duper so so so way too fast, and he tastes like chalk dust, school days – holy moly, first kiss?
I can barely feel it.
Just like that.
Oh man.
I touch my lips,
he rolls off of me, steadies himself on the wall before holding out a hand.
and Ripred ??
what if
we trip and die? ?
I can’t die, fuck. First kiss first kiss first kiss
“I want you to have fun; I don’t want you to get whipped,” Oscar says, “Unless you’re, like, into that kind of kink, babe.”
“I am having fun,” I say, but it comes out all wrong and scratchy and weird, and I can’t mean it like I really, really do.
He eyes me all over in a slow skepticism kinda way, and I’m promising myself, to Ripred and back, I feel less awful than I look. But mom screamed at me this morning when the door closed a little too loud, a floorboard creaked and she watched me wander in, fumbling keys, “Kira –”
“Uh-huh, whatever. Just lay off for a while,” he tells me, muffled a little with the cloth between his teeth. He wraps up my wrist, mellows shaking hands. And I’ve never really hurt myself before; I don’t feel so great, not so hot, a dizzying memory stuck, but –
I say yeah, okay. But yesterday was a dream slate.
I feel my lips, numb.
I feel so weird.
Like all gooey and fluttery but weird.
I look at Oscar, and maybe I should tell him – tell him like a question.
“I was kissed,” I say.
In a sec, he kinda makes a face. Stops what he’s doing. And casual casualty, tilt of head and I can see his eyes, no lie – “I wanted to kiss you, y’know.”
Oh. I didn’t.
I didn’t.
And I’m gonna say I’m sorry, automatically, but he shushes the words back, leans in close. And in a staged whisper, “a kiss is a commodity, kid.”
I remembered home at sunrise, a cold morning mist, ashen at the place where sky saw city. And I think I lost my sweater somewhere along the way, because she could see my arms and knew I fucked up – a silence and then a roar. I guess was yelled at a lot when I was younger, because I didn’t know shit and did dumb stuff and fucked up all the dang time. But this was different, because I used to listen, I used to be nice and clean and simple and I had never ever made mom cry before.
I feel
strange
all fluttery and light-headed, wreath of saltwater and a faraway place on my cheeks when I close my eyes, lean in.
Second kiss ever, and I’m already losing count.
This is what a kiss feels like I guess.
I guess.
There is a moment, a pulse and a hold, and Oscar’s looking at me. There is a pit in my stomach, a wide chasm that feels bloody, sick as his gaze tilts upwards, insides spinning at the angle. He’s speechless for that one moment, the oceans in his eyes like a slack tide, so I laugh it off, slap his shoulder with a sleeve. Like it’s all okay.
It is okay.
Laugh a bit, and some gory slit closes shut, the mood returns.
You know – I’d thought love would’ve been a lot more complicated from all the problematic poems I’ve read; the tragedy of kissing and falling and bruising all everything that spills the catastrophe of heartache-y words on a paper organ.
But this isn’t too hard.
“Can I stay here for a little while, Oscar?”
vapour
like
– some kind of magic trick,
just a second before his lips part,
--
A butterfly wets it wings
into a kiss, lips soft save for some mysterious chemical hurt.
He sucks powder from my fingers, taste of solar flares. And I can feel the warmth of his tongue like the sun burning, like beach weather of a really pretty and faraway place, stinging – skin going stupidly numb at all the places that he had touched.
He touches me, and I am melting.
Whoa.
.
.
Shit, I feel like g o l d, sunshine in my tummy, sun spots on my skin, up my arm, bruising circles like fairy rings and something sweetly in my mouth. And it’s heredity maybe – maybe why I’m here, belt-grip and great – because I’ve always known of the dangerous predisposition melting into my veins, honeyed poison, in velvet consistency, something crazy and really not not not good –
But I am the sun right now.
He cuts ivory, slender-toothed, magical, a
whirlwind
all caught up, condensed, small, boiling in a spoon and rings silver strands curling into the cool air. Standby pills, crushed, screaming, I tell him kinda sloppily, accidentally, whoops, “let’s go – !!”
“You’ve got a pretty mouth,” but he says a sec late,
I forgot what I read to him, since it’s all foggy –
There’s – there’s a kiss now,
wet, heavy, a flutter of dampened wings, and I don’t like him like that I think. It sets, paper veins.
But he breathes into me and I have to inhale and we’re falling on the sidewalk, blood crashing tidelines at the syrupy edges, sea foam of glass bits; my head’s wild right now, Ripred – I think my heart is running super-duper so so so way too fast, and he tastes like chalk dust, school days – holy moly, first kiss?
I can barely feel it.
Just like that.
Oh man.
I touch my lips,
he rolls off of me, steadies himself on the wall before holding out a hand.
and Ripred ??
what if
we trip and die? ?
I can’t die, fuck. First kiss first kiss first kiss
--
“I want you to have fun; I don’t want you to get whipped,” Oscar says, “Unless you’re, like, into that kind of kink, babe.”
“I am having fun,” I say, but it comes out all wrong and scratchy and weird, and I can’t mean it like I really, really do.
He eyes me all over in a slow skepticism kinda way, and I’m promising myself, to Ripred and back, I feel less awful than I look. But mom screamed at me this morning when the door closed a little too loud, a floorboard creaked and she watched me wander in, fumbling keys, “Kira –”
“Uh-huh, whatever. Just lay off for a while,” he tells me, muffled a little with the cloth between his teeth. He wraps up my wrist, mellows shaking hands. And I’ve never really hurt myself before; I don’t feel so great, not so hot, a dizzying memory stuck, but –
I say yeah, okay. But yesterday was a dream slate.
I feel my lips, numb.
I feel so weird.
Like all gooey and fluttery but weird.
I look at Oscar, and maybe I should tell him – tell him like a question.
“I was kissed,” I say.
In a sec, he kinda makes a face. Stops what he’s doing. And casual casualty, tilt of head and I can see his eyes, no lie – “I wanted to kiss you, y’know.”
Oh. I didn’t.
I didn’t.
And I’m gonna say I’m sorry, automatically, but he shushes the words back, leans in close. And in a staged whisper, “a kiss is a commodity, kid.”
I remembered home at sunrise, a cold morning mist, ashen at the place where sky saw city. And I think I lost my sweater somewhere along the way, because she could see my arms and knew I fucked up – a silence and then a roar. I guess was yelled at a lot when I was younger, because I didn’t know shit and did dumb stuff and fucked up all the dang time. But this was different, because I used to listen, I used to be nice and clean and simple and I had never ever made mom cry before.
I feel
strange
all fluttery and light-headed, wreath of saltwater and a faraway place on my cheeks when I close my eyes, lean in.
Second kiss ever, and I’m already losing count.
This is what a kiss feels like I guess.
I guess.
There is a moment, a pulse and a hold, and Oscar’s looking at me. There is a pit in my stomach, a wide chasm that feels bloody, sick as his gaze tilts upwards, insides spinning at the angle. He’s speechless for that one moment, the oceans in his eyes like a slack tide, so I laugh it off, slap his shoulder with a sleeve. Like it’s all okay.
It is okay.
Laugh a bit, and some gory slit closes shut, the mood returns.
You know – I’d thought love would’ve been a lot more complicated from all the problematic poems I’ve read; the tragedy of kissing and falling and bruising all everything that spills the catastrophe of heartache-y words on a paper organ.
But this isn’t too hard.
“Can I stay here for a little while, Oscar?”
