Post by alistair gale d1m [nyte] on Mar 26, 2018 5:48:36 GMT -5
My bedroom is a graveyard. Bouquets made of cotton cradle a body laid restlessly beneath the dirt. Two years and counting, the decay has started to get to me. Reaching up through the beds of my nails- I can see veins beneath my skin made of glass and it is absolute bliss to watch poison stain them black. Euphoria is a head tilted back against white plaster, listening to a heart that beats too fast. Through my ears and into my throat, it is mine in the moments that are not right. I own every bit of my breaking.
Dreams become nightmares. Angel's wings turned to hellfire and fabricated memories became tears escaping from in between fluttering lids. Insomnia is a blessing when a good night's sleep is as painful as fists plunged into broken glass. Resourceful, survivor, there are vices hidden beneath the shiny tile of broken promises and it took me no time to find them all.
I don't often think about 'used to be'. About cheeks once round and swollen with smiles sewn to their skin. Numbness is so much easier, cautiously teetering upon ignorance. Avoiding faces, avoiding names. Juno. Don't think about them. About the evenings shared beneath the warm yellow light of flickering lamps, eyes straining in the damp light and struggling to rise above chronic inadequacy.
It wasn't about being the best. I didn't give a shit about the grades they stuck below bolded print. I didn't give a shit about bragging rights. Fantasies were slipped beneath my sleeves, clinging to a title I would never possess. Son. Ripped from in between bleeding palms there was pain within the truth that I could not comprehend.
Locked doors transformed a sanctum into a coffin. Disease festering within the wounds left by trailing tears and to say that I died that day would be a fucking lie. I simply realized that I always had been. There is strange power in taking control of your own destruction, I wasn't so much crying for help as I was screaming it. In bold black letters blended beneath my waterline.
I hurt Juno, I know I did. But with every burned memory I begged them to see something beneath the poison in my words. Please. Fuck off. Help me. And I knew not the taste of temptation until it swam within brown eyes. A delivery boy with a tongue that stuck to his top lip in a way I could only describe as obnoxious. He was not particularly cute and the way that he looked at me burned so bad that I wished it were possible to crawl out of my skin. But there were treasures hidden within his sweaty palms, liquors and leaves that made the way that he pulled on my hair something bearable.
I learned again, that day. Of how dreamless sleep can be when you don't remember falling asleep. There were more delivery boys after him, cravings began to replace the agony that coiled in the pit of my stomach. For the way that my head would spin, for a stomach churning with gasoline placed perfectly at its core. Angry and volatile.
It's fucked. I'm fucked. There is fire spreading up my fingertips and I'd never had a powder before. White as snow, horribly bitter and yet sickly sweet. I don't think I even knew its name. That's the point. The thrill of mystery dissolving in my bloodstream and there are firecrackers in my veins. This life is a lonely one, false bravado - an anger I have no energy left to feel pushing away just about anyone who'd give a damn if they found me tomorrow. Cold and dead and lying in a pool of my own sick. Better than conforming, than laying down the foundation for my own demise so lovingly.
How dare they give me a body I am not allowed to own. Clinging to a few more years, a few more minutes, as poison causes them to disappear. Evaporating from in between cupped hands and there are only tears left to replace the holy water which once lay there. There are rose-colored glasses, hidden within mahogany drawers that I have chained shut. I don't want to remember who I used to be.
"Fuck it all, you know?" I run my fingers through her hair, cautiously wrapping a strand around my fingers so that I may revel in the softness of a touch. One that is not hungry, not expecting. Bell understands. Perhaps better than anyone I've ever met. There are no expectations to do better. No desperate pleading for me to save myself, to realize that there is something worth fighting for in this world made of fire and brimstone thinly coated with expensive gold. She knows that's not the point.