every heartbeat [dars]
Nov 17, 2017 16:24:26 GMT -5
Post by kousei ♚ on Nov 17, 2017 16:24:26 GMT -5
P O L A R I S .
Shadows were born within tragedies and setting suns.
It doesn't hurt anymore than it did at the age of six when the sight of mothers and fathers taking their children's hands in their sparked an innocent curiosity into a sinful existence.
I was naive, daring to ask my grandparents what happened to my actual mother and my actual father, I asked why they never picked me up from school and why I never saw them. I recognized my mother from pictures, they made a point to always remind me whose womb I came from but I never saw a single picture of my father in sight, not in window sills and certainly not framed upon the wall.
I never bothered to ask why, until the age of six when innocent curiosity became a gateway for the burning of my innocence. The seconds passing after dinner felt like lead in my chest and I spoke with wide eyes and empty hands.
("Where's Mommy?"
"In a better place now, Honey.")
"In a better place now, Honey.")
My grandmother was never quick to miss a beat, taking my hands in hers and telling me that she was with the stars and that I could only see her if I took the sharpest telescope in the land, stood beneath my namesake and gazed into the night sky for hours. But I was young, not stupid, I already knew that a better place was anywhere but here, I knew that I'd never know the touch of my mother's auburn hair, the warmth of her embrace nor the comfort she allowed those around her to feel.
I only hung my head in disappointment and left, I never knew her after all.
"Shit," I mutter to myself and clutching the cancer stick in my left hand. Rosie says they're bad for me --worse for the environment and yet I breathe my fumes in the presence of trees and I'll happily let the environment pay the price of my arbitrary nature. This is what it feels like to self destruct and it's far too easy to decide I don't care anymore, it feels normal.
Still, I find myself wondering what the calm before the storm came to be, before my grandparents left this gravestone as a token of the path my mother took that led into the predatory arms of the father whose name I do not know to this day. I tap the top of the stick, letting flaming cherries fall to the ground around my feet and smoke rise from my lungs like a factory -- I wonder if she hated smokers like me. Not that it matters anyway and not that I care, she's the one who built a life out of matchsticks and left it open to a predator made of fire, having Riley with a face I've never seen and then having me to a face the people say should be shot for what he did. Fucked and dumped.
"Dumb bitch." I whisper, ejecting the stump from between my teeth and turning on my heels -- I will not be a victim.
I have the prove, the bruises on my knuckles I wear like war medals and the scars on my skin I cherish like gold. My blackened eye still throbs ugly shades of purple from the man who's forehead blinded my vision in my left yet my knuckles throbs metallic shades of blue from the blow that fractured his nose like a bullet within glass. Goddamn, this would be easier if I was high or drunk and not following lanes beneath tall trees and a setting sun. Yet the front and centre of my head throbs like the after taste of a broken mind, I spent did spent the night in a chemical haze after all.
It feels good to watch light die so stars can be reborn -- northern and southern alike.
I told Rosie that was me, like the north star, and I smile at the thought. The illusion that was something worth searching for, pointing at and laughing. The white cluster of galaxies me and Riley would watch at nine and ten -- fuck me I was a stupid kid. It's easier now, to stomp on ribs and punch faces than tell myself I could be anything better. Easier to get high and touch stars than actually reach for them. I'm --
"Rosie?" It's instinctive at this point, calling out to her when I see a curtain of blonde reflect dying light and fail to hide sea blue eyes.
She turns and the fingers on my left hand instinctively touch the bruised portion of my black eye, I never wondered how she thought of the war scars and broken skin. It's always just been who I am. I can't help but smile though because this is different; whatever this is. It's not fucking washed-up back alley women after leaving their boyfriends broken on the ground, it certainly ain't letting a woman just as high as me stick her tongue down my throat after a morning of dissociation and fantasy, I compelled myself to stop doing that after I began climbing through her window. She's not like that, she's not impulsive, she's just Rosemary like the herb. Growing strong, put together and good to look at. Nothing like a star that inevitably comes to self-destruct when it runs out of things to burn.
Sometimes, I wonder if there are people halting my self-destruction for.
I can't help but smirk when I catch her gaze. "You're out late, was just about to find your window again."
It's impulse that controls my cyclic pulse now.
