breathe some life into my bones — j.w.

calla
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just a litle creacher

breathe some life into my bones — j.w. Jan 6, 2019 22:17:52 GMT -5

Post by calla on Jan 6, 2019 22:17:52 GMT -5

i wake up in the middle of the night,
toss back a quilt
and feel so
different.

this is not precognition;
it's a patchwork,
a story written out in the places where
my bones meet
and break
and grow.

even though i can still hear them creak
sometimes,
grinding under labour,
full from the grit of dust storms,
echoing a lifetime of hairline fractures.

a red string unravels;

"i'm gonna rope the moon one day, jed."

and there's an empty space
where something important used to be;
jagged hearts and
red stars and
unsteady slopes.

how can one boy
be worth dying for.

there's something wrong,
i think,
deep
deep down.

a reckoning -
so i try to drown it during drought season.
futility at the end of a long winter,
the closure of a short spring,
these broken branches and new flowers that
wither and
curl with the heat.
the dawn.
the dusk.

this is another season
of abrupt things.

of how nothing lasts forever.

and how i don't believe
in fate.

this is the everything out of place;
the epilogue
the story
the prequel,
and another reaping.

"Caine Winchester!"

another heartbeat

"Jedidiah Winchester!"

and i still watch the heat waves rise from beds of concrete,
hollow lunged,
unsteady,

the record skips and

"Charlie Bones!"

starts over.

i wake up in the middle of the night,
toss back a quilt
and feel
the same.

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calla
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2,120 POSTS

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just a litle creacher

breathe some life into my bones — j.w. Jan 6, 2019 22:24:56 GMT -5

Post by calla on Jan 6, 2019 22:24:56 GMT -5

it's 11 o'clock
in a bar somewhere on the outskirts
away from old faces
and new names
and
i'm sorry for your loss.

because there's six months worth of sympathy
at the bottom of a bottle.
and i'd rather try my luck with something real,
something worth my time.
like alcohol poisoning
or
memory loss.

it's 11:15;

a shutter falls.

a glass breaks.

i see myself in the mirror.

and there's a draft across the floorboards,
someone picks at the strings of a guitar
all cavernous and wrong,
like it got left outside,
filled up with rainwater
and no one bothered to drain it.

it makes my head pound
because

i think someone forgot

to drain
me

once.

beer
spills on a collar,
on a neck,
stale and sticky after an hour.
but

he has blonde hair,
flaxen,

and he puts the instrument down,
treats it precious,
lily-like,
like it's alive.

like how i used to be.

he grabs my hand
and
writes a name,
a number.

i feel like i'm underwater.

the ink smudges.

the room is quiet

and
i think i find the sun

in a song

and in a bed.

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calla
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2,120 POSTS

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last seen Apr 17, 2024 0:08:40 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

breathe some life into my bones — j.w. Jan 6, 2019 22:37:08 GMT -5

Post by calla on Jan 6, 2019 22:37:08 GMT -5

last night,
someone came by
sometime past six
sometime before seven
and ran across the dead grass
with a match.

(i saw them, i swear)

and it only took a whisper to
burn.

(it hasn't rained in two weeks)

it's always hot but
it's always cold,
freezing,

outside the barn i
turn my head and
i think i see

snow.
high altitudes.
gravel.
a trick of the light.

it's here in this spot where
sometimes the air feels
thinner.

where there are voices that fall
like hail
and ash,
flutter to the ground
and find a home

where our stream iced over five months ago,
and then melted
into nothing.

nothing
but dust and dirt,

a smell of the earth,
of thunder,
of lightning.

some kind of freedom,

envy -
i've only ever seen green in
places where children die
silently,
in forests
and fields
and mountains.

being raised for the slaughter.

but there are worse things

and
a year passes by so quickly,
so quietly.

three hundred and sixty-five days.

eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours
pass by and
crack like
birch wood.

the world burns

and i watch the smoke float away
and away
and away
and away
and away
and away
and away

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calla
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2,120 POSTS

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last seen Apr 17, 2024 0:08:40 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

breathe some life into my bones — j.w. Jan 6, 2019 22:44:43 GMT -5

Post by calla on Jan 6, 2019 22:44:43 GMT -5

sometimes the ranch is quiet,
suffocating
and
i can't breathe

because

there's a name
stuck in the back of my throat

aesonkightaesonkightaesonkightaesonki-

and i can almost forget it,
sometimes.

because

there's a number
written on the back of my hand

do you ever dream of life being different?

1. yes
2. absolutely
3. of course

next question.

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calla
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2,120 POSTS

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last seen Apr 17, 2024 0:08:40 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

breathe some life into my bones — j.w. Jan 6, 2019 23:00:30 GMT -5

Post by calla on Jan 6, 2019 23:00:30 GMT -5

the rain comes
eventually
when there are fresh faces pushing through the soil,
guilt hidden in doe eyes,

and the drought ends

because
nothing lasts forever

~~nothing lasts forever~~

mountains will crumble into pebbles,
flowers will lose their petals,
boys will lose their brothers.

and you can still be an
imposter
after two years of trying.

because i think i felt like a king once,
with a hollow crown,
a cracked sceptre,
a kingdom of cattle.

but after twenty-three months
there's a kind of weight to it.

and there are worse things

like
how i slipped into something that wasn't mine,
stumbled somewhere i didn't belong
and became
someone else.

i found a new skin,
buried myself in the garden
out back
and took up a mantle,
scratched out a name and
replaced it
until it was forgotten
outside these walls.

i can't be the person
you want me to be.

and i tried
so hard.

(i swear)

but there are worse things

than poisoning your own
identity.

things unfair,
out of control,
beautiful catastrophes.

like
how the rain always falls
down

into something forgotten,
a boy,
a guitar,
fills it with something that doesn't belong

and ruins it.

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