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kousei ♚
Mentor

2,011 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

built by constructs; luke&roan May 18, 2018 14:47:27 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on May 18, 2018 14:47:27 GMT -5

r o a n

You aren't founded on many places
and you're defined by very few faces.

Preserve the basis of brightness and the solar flare in your chest doesn't burn any dimmer despite this fact, the want gnawing at the back of your throat to watch light weep in its entirety doesn't set with twilight. You're a tortured artist, heavy brush strokes across your canvas, and the idea seems almost masochistic at heart. Following a desire to unlock the beauty buried beneath the Earth's core despite lacking the capacity to see what you construct past its shapes and know what it means to love it.

(because even after seventeen years
you still don't realize
there's more to love than a hue you cannot see)

Squinted eyes, furrowed eyebrows and broken lead; this is an extension you refuse to drop. You forget what it means to house organs that aren't yours to cherish, you forget how your body moves to preserve a cyclical pulse that doesn't sustain it. You see the irony in how you trace the outline of a heart, a proper heart wrapped tight with a system of winding veins and arteries, calms the racing of yours. How it's so easy to forget how you imagine yourself as nothing more than a hollow shell with an emptied core at night.

There are days when you think you can be optimistic; that you can have everything despite being nothing at all. Because you have more to give than defective eyes, that your best quality isn't your healthy heart and porcelain white lungs; there's more to you than the function to breathe and the organs you house in your empty core.

So you hold up your heart through proud eyes and let the moonlight catch it just right. So the tendrils of the sun chase away the shadows pinning it to the darkness, if you look close enough and stare hard enough then you can see every expansion and contraction of muscle. It doesn't function, but it's yours and you decide that it's nice to be allowed to pretend.

"I bet you look beautiful."

You want to love beautiful things you cannot see.

You take off, soles of trainers scurrying across creaking floorboards and paper clutched tight to your chest. You traverse across boundaries set by silver light, and rise to the sound of a paper pulse. You allow yourself to breathe and taste fresh air; this is one of very few places you call your foundation.

Tracing with your eyes and finding his outline; one of very few faces that define you. Luke. You smile but the name doesn't roll off your tongue, nothing like the name Rose, doesn't rouse the same storm within your chest and shatter the same bones. But he's a definition, a face you call your own and a smile that makes you smile. He's contagious in that way.

"Luke."

Automatic; the name rolls off the tongue.

You're carried across the sand, leaving a trail of afterimages behind in your wake as you hold out the paper organ in your hand. A reminder that you can have everything while simultaneously being nothing at all. There's so much you could do, with all this nothing, and he's a reminder of that.

"I drew something, nothing much, more of a doodle but I figured you'd like it," twenty-four hours prior you might've kicked yourself for being so stupid. Because what could Luke Hailsham ever want to do with a paper heart constructed by your musings and desire to find a coping mechanism? "I dunno, maybe you could give it to someone special."

That'll do, you suppose.

Last Edit: May 18, 2018 14:54:21 GMT -5 by kousei ♚

napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
Retired Staff

3,108 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 19, 2024 3:17:51 GMT -5

built by constructs; luke&roan May 20, 2018 7:34:12 GMT -5

Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on May 20, 2018 7:34:12 GMT -5

The day bleeds melancholy,
A leaden horizon and suspended clouds.

You can taste austerity on the tip of your bruised tongue, an insipid flavor that hasn’t fade away since early luncheon. Tiptoeing past desolate halls with Wade to steal cookies is a delight you wish to be perpetual—yet, the cookie dough’s lost its saccharine aftertaste.

Most of the time, it feels as if you’re nibbling on a rubbery paste. The sugary drinks don’t slake thirst anymore, and those out of the blue cravings for junk foods subdued. Something is wrecked inside, something is in shards.

After a while, your doubts about this body fester and begin to hinder classes, weekly rendezvouses with the others, with Wade, because time’s squandered dead by an elongated string of contemplations and hypothesis. Gradually, you begin to suspect a systemic rebellion of organs. You suppose—if you were in their shoes, the heavy act of operating a body they don’t possess, would seem preposterous to you too.

It’s a humdrum labor, solely destined to exacerbate.

The expanse of teal sea stretches ahead, bordered with webs of moss and jagged boulders, and there’s a distant roar from ebbs and flows. Your toes find comfort, blanketed by sand. Hands tenderly wrap around your frame as protection against the seaward gales.

Wade would spot astray sea glasses if he is here. Rose can drown out everything with a feral melody. You, on the other hand, sprawl over a bed of sand there, gazing skyward aimlessly. Gulls swarm above but never descend to kiss the grass.

Perchance, those aviators recognize these islet’s grounds as damned, as a boneyard. You see through their counterfeit promises and falsehoods—everyone does. They say miracle, you scream murder. Organ transference kills. It’s not a purifying act, only a macabre tragedy.

Even your inept biology mind knows:
No one can be devoid of a heartbeat.

Prismatic is the way the sunset fragmentizes itself to a thousand streaks of hot pinks, dreamy purples and soft lilacs. It reigns across a marigold horizon seamlessly, altering the teals of sea to a muted blue. Breath-taking; you thought. But, from the corner of an eye, Roan’s silhouette arises—and every color becomes an unspoken tragedy. You feel a pang amid your ribcage; this is a sight you can’t share with him.

“Hey, Roan.” The name is a grace to articulate; the grin is seamless, natural. “Thought you’d be holed up somewhere, sketching something voluptuous.” Playful mockery drips from that concluding adjective.

Your assumptions are proven correct when he hands you an intricate creation of graphite coronaries and veins. The guilt of not sharing a sunset fades away, because Roan’s feasts upon a more grandiose beauty.

“Whoa.” You exhale a held breath.

“I don’t know, maybe you could give it to someone special.”

It stings—because the word ‘special’ connotes with one mosaic of a boy, Wade Hailsham. You, with no intentions to do so, emblemize this paper heart as his. “Or, I could give it to Bell and tell her not to be disheartened.” Pearly whites let loose a snicker as he folds the paper to a neat rectangle, and buries it down a pocket.

Fingertips toy with a hand-rolled cigarette in lieu of an artwork. You know cigars are death sticks, but it’s better to corrupt these ivoried lungs yourself rather than have a surgeon’s silver jab at it.

So, you ignite one, and devour fumes.
In the spur of a moment, you selfishly
choose to corrupt Roan’s also.

“Want one? It’s not air pollution
if you don’t exhale it.”

[dars]

Last Edit: May 20, 2018 7:35:44 GMT -5 by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

堕落天使

kousei ♚
Mentor

2,011 POSTS
Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen May 7, 2022 17:23:18 GMT -5

now and forever

built by constructs; luke&roan May 24, 2018 10:36:18 GMT -5

Post by kousei ♚ on May 24, 2018 10:36:18 GMT -5

r o a n

A definition; Luke Hailsham.

He takes an extension of yourself and it parts from your tired fingers, you can't help but smile as he accepts your gift.

A wonder.

Jane said you craft world wonders with your hands, that when you painted like a dreamer it was like a god had touched the canvas and not a colour blind boy. Rose says your talented, and a prideful smile spreads across your face as your chest swells in shades of gold; just like it does now when Luke takes your graphite heart with a single word. "Whoa." As if he's found the sun, as if he has his fingers entwined with twilight.

He takes an extension of yourself from your fingers and this is what it means to find the glare of the sun. You smile because it's beautiful, he's funny and you want to exist for moments like these. You want him to be more, to be more than another prisoner in this cage of monochromia you've constructed from the basis of brightness. When he smiles, you want to see more than missed opportunities and a library of 'what-ifs'.

You want to see the wonder that is behind the smile of a class clown.

“Or, I could give it to Bell and tell her not to be disheartened.” You smile together because it's nice to. It's nice to find common ground in humor. Together, you form an illustration of innocence on the beach, just bros being bros. Luke Hailsham becomes Luke who becomes another definition; a wonder to be seen.

You are founded on one place, and defined by many faces,
Luke is the best one at making you smile.

You want to see your own reflection, all of it, not a construct built upon the basis of brightness. Not a set of teeth seen through an ashen lens and a skewed reality, not a pair of eyes full of stars that died a long time ago. But you want to see yourself, run a hand through your dark hair and see the stars in your eyes reignite and show you what it means to embody twilight. You want to see your own smile when Luke makes a joke and helps you forget the sacred sovereignty you've been stripped of at seventeen.

You want to exist, for moments like this.

The moments you can laugh. "I suppose, we all need a little reminder of those sometimes." You say as the laughter dies down in the back of your throat and he tucks the paper into his pocket after folding it into fours. You find the value in your coping mechanism, that a graphite heart you can pretend is yours can be a true extension of yourself.

Not all mechanisms are healthy; and Luke becomes a reminder of that when he draws a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and smiles with a cancer stick between his lips. You do not judge him, the habits of a man are his alone, and it's not your place to judge what people do with lungs that are not theirs to cherish. He's not killing himself, the world did that job for him.

There's the beauty in Luke Hailsham, he's a dead man walking that makes you forget the graveyard that stretches beyond the horizon. That your ghosts want nothing more than to tuck themselves in the sand and weep for a creed that connotes missed opportunities and what-ifs.

He smiles and you forget.

That's why he's more than just a black and white definition to you, another shadow to define on the basis of brightness. He's Luke Hailsham and you want to exist for this; just bros being bros, right?

Yeah, of course.

“Want one? It’s not air pollution if you don’t exhale it.”

He reaches out, an extension of defiance clutched between his fingertips and a toxic storm resting within his lungs. You ran a hand through your hair, eyeing the cancer stick with uncertainty. Had this been a year ago, you know exactly what you would've said ("No thanks, smoking's really bad for your body, y'know.") and you would've bowed your hair politely too. Just because you wanted to take care of your body, doesn't mean you could judge those that didn't.

(until you remember
this body is not yours
there's nothing to protect)

An extension of defiance, death by intentional suicide, is clutched between your thumb and index and an ignition of rebellious teenage tendencies sets the cancer stick ablaze. "I mean, I've never done it before but... er..."

You just inhale right?

Right.

"Here goes?"

Pressed into your lips and taken into your lungs, the reaper claws at your lungs and provides your throat with the curse of ignition.

It falls.

But it doesn't hit the sand, for you instinctively take it from your lips and you're sent into a coughing spree. Sputtering and coughing and you can't take anything

in.

"What the hell?" You smile weakly as you meekly wipe tears from your eyes. "Luke, I think you're supposed to exhale." You manage to laugh, because it's nice to. You wipe your mouth before cringing. "How do you do this everyday?"

There's the beauty of Luke Hailsham; more of a mystery than a man.