Post IX
no, actually, you don't need to.
I'm just posting a short story I wrote :D
what he did best was pretend.
he remembers how he'd curl in a ball and cross his arms, laying his head so his head would sit on your chest. he can feel the laughter before he hears it, and it sends him tumbling off the diving board into an abyss of stars and bolts of the deep blue fabric of his mother-god-bless-her's best dress.
you'd read while he listened to the radio, fair hair tucked behind one ear as he pressed closer to hear the anchor over the static. he would lean against you with the limpness of sleep and you would pet his hair, back and forth and back and forth until it shone, bright as a candle in the light.
“are you going to leave?” he would ask as he's lifted up, a faded doll in a grownup's hands. his ear is pressed awkwardly against your throat, and it vibrates with a whispered reply, “no, baby, I'm just going home.”
he was one door-frame away from your room, and you both knew it.
the walls run red and he sometimes wishes, eating or playing or running or dreaming, that he could just take his thumb and peel his chest right open, so he could pull himself over you like a threadbare coat and lay together instead of apart.
footprints crisscross on the layer of dust coating the floor.
eleven days, twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and two seconds.
fourteen men in black and white rush in in a sea of red and blue. the first thing they see is him, eyes open, cradling pale elbows with one ear firmly pressed to your chest.
he can't hear anything, they say.
on the red of the floor, your hair is splayed and sticky and forms a perfect circle around your face, a perfect halo in the dark.
now his snowy hair lies limp on his neck, his papery lips full of cracks and faded pink, his eyes burned up inside and leaving only little piles of ash. his cheeks have given up their color long ago.
he likes to lay on the fourth step to the roof, watching birds glide by until the White People come to scold him back inside, shooing him with their hands because he still can't hear.
doesn't want to, apparently. it's not you.
and his mouth always forms the same worn words.
never says them, just lets them sit in his mouth like
sand at the bottom of an hourglass.
“like an angel”
I'm just posting a short story I wrote :D
what he did best was pretend.
he remembers how he'd curl in a ball and cross his arms, laying his head so his head would sit on your chest. he can feel the laughter before he hears it, and it sends him tumbling off the diving board into an abyss of stars and bolts of the deep blue fabric of his mother-god-bless-her's best dress.
you'd read while he listened to the radio, fair hair tucked behind one ear as he pressed closer to hear the anchor over the static. he would lean against you with the limpness of sleep and you would pet his hair, back and forth and back and forth until it shone, bright as a candle in the light.
“are you going to leave?” he would ask as he's lifted up, a faded doll in a grownup's hands. his ear is pressed awkwardly against your throat, and it vibrates with a whispered reply, “no, baby, I'm just going home.”
he was one door-frame away from your room, and you both knew it.
the walls run red and he sometimes wishes, eating or playing or running or dreaming, that he could just take his thumb and peel his chest right open, so he could pull himself over you like a threadbare coat and lay together instead of apart.
footprints crisscross on the layer of dust coating the floor.
eleven days, twelve hours, thirteen minutes, and two seconds.
fourteen men in black and white rush in in a sea of red and blue. the first thing they see is him, eyes open, cradling pale elbows with one ear firmly pressed to your chest.
he can't hear anything, they say.
on the red of the floor, your hair is splayed and sticky and forms a perfect circle around your face, a perfect halo in the dark.
now his snowy hair lies limp on his neck, his papery lips full of cracks and faded pink, his eyes burned up inside and leaving only little piles of ash. his cheeks have given up their color long ago.
he likes to lay on the fourth step to the roof, watching birds glide by until the White People come to scold him back inside, shooing him with their hands because he still can't hear.
doesn't want to, apparently. it's not you.
and his mouth always forms the same worn words.
never says them, just lets them sit in his mouth like
sand at the bottom of an hourglass.
“like an angel”