mischa kingston. nine. cbd2

spitfire boy you don't know when to stop burning.

you grow up setting everything that you can on fire just so that someone will pay attention. your brother at thirteen, sharp tongued and hollow where a heart should be: what the fuck is wrong with you?

you: what gives you the right to know.

and it goes like that. defiant at every turn for no good reason except for that you had a daddy who didn't know how to show you how to love and mother who thought selling all of your souls was a worthwhile price to pay to get more than scraps on the table. you have never gotten along with authority, never gotten along well with other people at all.

defensive and abrasive with walls higher than the eye can see.

you like it when you get to fight. feel something like light blossoming in your chest every time you curl your bruised fingers into a fist and shout cruel things at the sky. before you learn kindness you teach yourself words that will undo everyone else around you in the worst kind of ways. when it's your turn for the crimsons to cut your soul out and eat it, lena martin looks at you and asks you to protect her with tears in her eyes and all you say is: i'll be your soldier for hire.

at least you get to fight.

no one has once asked you why you are all rage. asked if you know what calm feels like. asked if they can help.