kidcomrade
The apartment's been empty for a few years now, but I keep going back to it. Whenever I'm in your part of town, I drive past, almost expecting you to be there waiting for me. It's stupid. I shouldn't be looking for you still, after all this time, but you DID make me a promise.
the walls are white, clean, unfamiliar; i don't recognize anything in this room and i don't recognize the gleaming chrome instruments, nor the linens, nor the men in masks and scrubs who say that it won't hurt at all, over in just a second, yes, that's a good boy now open your mouth. i am anesthetized. i cannot even scream.
Sometimes I feel like I'm sinking. I hit my peak a few years ago, and now, nothing really seems to be going REALLY well for me. I'm doing fine, good, even, but I'd prefer "great".
the buzz of electric light
i sit alone in an airport on stiff plastic chair, bags at my feet, the world before my eyes
my plane is delayed
seven hours to flight
seven hours to freedom
SLAM--the force shook her teeth in her skull as she felt her body shake. It seemed like every inch of her was still quivering as she fell to the muddy cement after colliding so roughly with the wall.
Step, one two three, step, one two three--
"Ow! You've trodden on my toes again," she whines, scowling and breaking their near-perfect waltz position.
"They were on the wrong position!"
"Oh, THEY were? What about you?!"
"It's only natural, that I should love you."
His hands drift over the sculpture's arms--arms he himself has molded from earth and clay.
"I made you. Isn't that right, Galatea?"
She does not reply; her tongue is marble, cool, immobile.
There was a sad look in her eyes, but not particularly unhappy; no, she had grown used to her lot in life, a lot of misfortune, and she dealt with it gracefully, taking every setback with firmness of heart and calmness of mind.
smoke drifting lazily from her lips, wisps of white and air as she exhales, blows smoke, nicotine-tar gas. it mingles with the air, the air of storm, the oddly fresh scent of cement wet with rain, and is gone in an instant--and she is as well, stiletto pumps splashing ever-so-slightly in the puddles as the rhythm of water beats against her black umbrella.
"Ow!"
"Hold still, the more you move, the more likely I'll be cutting off part of your arm with the plaster."
"Fine, fine."
This is completely against every rule his mother has told him. Do what the doctor says--broken. Don't listen to anything Uncle Marty tells you, he's a loose cannon--broken.
Don't mess with the power tools?
Shattered.
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writing since 2010 · 68 entries · 67 days shown up
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eyesfaceairnowhandslovebloodwhitetearsnightredwrongarmsfingersmouthwater