(no subject)
明鲜
you always thought that if you had to die young, you'd die like one of all of those fallen stars that end up giving up on life on the white sheets of their bed. your mouth open and your lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, with too much drugs or alcohol in your blood, or something like this. like those rockers that die stupidily after having conquered hundreds of hearts, for they don't even know how to manage themselves; vomit in your throat or needle in your arm.
you always thought you'd die at the early age of life, water dust dripping from the corner of the starless skies that'd be your eyes
after giving the best of yourself on the stage, on the blinding stage where your heart is at the fullest, and your guitar makes you alive and after your stupid passion takes you away
but like this? no. you would have never thought you'd end up like this.
broken, shattered into pieces
蘭
there's a lump in her throat. blocked there and not moving. (it won't)
she looks at her surroundings, with all the people talking and smiling, and she wonders where she has gone wrong, at some point in her life. when did people stop talking to her on daily basis, going to her to tell small random stuffs that makes life easier and a whole lot brighter. when did people stop asking her how she was when she met them in the corridors or go to her to greet her with a simple « good morning ». when did people stop talking to her altogether.
she must have done something wrong, at some point. maybe she should have never talked about her problems, opened her heart to any of them. maybe that was what she had done wrong (because she couldn't think of anything else, but maybe, maybe it was just that.) (she didn't notice either when everything started going down). showing her weakness, maybe it was what was wrong. (yet she didn't show it all, because she never does. and secrets are shared only one at a time, usually covered by a small whine or a small thing that bothers her, to not let greater wounds and insecurities be shown.)
that's probably what she did wrong. being hurt, and sad, and desperate, and showing it a bit too much because she couldn't help, and thinking that she could rely on others to accept her as such.
(she already knew that people flee sad people like plague, she should have known better)
or maybe, it's always been like this, her going to others and asking her how their day has been, how they are feeling, spilling good mornings and smiles and hugs easily. Maybe it has always been one-sided, and she only notices it now.
(it's exhausting)
(and at the end of the day, she feels slightly hollow)
(but she already did, watching others talking from afar, and not saying a word, yet no one is coming to her) (maybe no one cares anymore)
maybe that's all it has ever been: friendships go to and fro, leaving her with a strange nothingness in her heart, bitterness and hurt suffocating her
maybe that's all it had ever been
maybe she's wrong
지훈
they say all wounds heal with time, but it doesn't. It never did and it never will. The more time passes, the uglier the wound in your heart gets, the greater it grows. Time only adds salt to those cuts, and the bitterness that slides off your tongue, each time, only fuels it with more dirt, infecting it until there's nothing left except for raw blueish flesh.
It's not the kind of wound that heals with time, it's not. It's the kind of disease that spreads itself like a cancer, swallowing down your heart, piece by piece, second after second, until it is entirely consumed by both fire and frost. until the organ turns into stone and ice : hard, unforgiving and freezing.
- and yet, incredibly fragile, as only one last blow would be enough to crush it back to dust. -