a mass collection of thought
Haven't posted anything in a while...sorry if none of these drabbles or half-thoughts make any sense. They aren't really supposed to. Uh, and matching tenses are for losers. Expect a lot of crap.
Under no circumstances should you tell me
I was probably a little derailed. Everyone told me to calm down, sit down, take a break, don't worry too much about what was going on. But nothing was going on. We were in limbo, on a hiatus that didn't even cover the fact that no one wanted to have anything to do with me. Because that was really what it was all about. Every time I even opened my mouth to speak, everyone seemed to shrink into themselves. They nodded and it was over. They laughed at my jokes and looked sad at my stories, but nothing was getting to them. They always managed to crawl away to someplace else before I could get to them.
I wondered if maybe they were all having some party in their heads, and I was the only one not invited. And it was a big secret, but I knew about it. And they knew I knew it too, so it didn't really matter. They could just leave whenever they wanted to, without me, and with everyone else. With my family and old friends who only smiled weakly when I visited them. Yes, these partyers took my family too, away to some fantastic time and place where no one needed to remember me.
They never called me by my name anymore. They would open their mouths and start to say it, but before it could even come out, they'd swallow it back down. I'd say "it's not healthy to do that. it's probably like swallowing vomit."
They would laugh nervously and turn away to their party.
That sick feeling you get
Distantly he feels the pulse and screams.
While his entire body hurts, he's most aware of his fingertips burning. Yes, the flames flicker and start to climb up through his fingers, burning away to the bone.
He sees whitewhitewhite hot bone, also burning under the flames that continue, swallowing up his hand.
The empty space is twitching in place of the hand. His chest tightens and he feels a little excited. He remembers middle school, telling everyone he loved getting shots and the French teacher calling him an adrenaline junkie.
Right now, though, he's just a masochist. He’s screaming in ecstasy.
His head is throbbing and his brain is saying pull your fucking hand away! but he stays in the same position.
His mom always told him to be careful with the people you love. He was being so careful with everyone else but himself, he wondered if maybe he just hated himself and loved doing it too.
By now, it’s reached his shoulder, having completely eaten away the entirety of his right arm. He feels a rush of mournful longing, feeling a little sick as he tries to raise a hand that isn’t there. In that moment, he is stuck between trying to put out the fire or trying to stoke the flames.
The flames reach up and gently brush his cheek, waking him up with the same ferocity of a splash of cold water. Looking down he notices with little grief that his hand is back.
In front of him is a charred body. "You always did bring back those memories in me."
I will fuck up & you will take the fall
The leader, with come all over his face.
Fucking surprise! I say.
He looks angry beyond all words, all actions. Like there's nothing he can do to show me how betrayed he feels.
That's the point. I say.
He opens his mouth, and spits. He isn't aiming for me, it's not a sort of defiant thing. It's just something he has to do to get the taste out of his mouth, something that's keeping him there right now. I decide to put away any stupid thoughts he has concerning this.
I'm not going to say sorry, because I don't feel bad about it. I say.
His lips quiver a bit, and he brings up his hand to wipe his face. He's more than cleaning himself up, he's going through a process, of breaking down what happened and learning to live with it, maybe even forget it if he's lucky.
Not a fucking chance. I can't help but to snarl.
He brutally wipes his mouth again before licking his lips. He still grimaces and bares his teeth. He nods and tries to turn away.
I really like the way you look right now. I say.
He looks more upset than I've ever seen him before. He's shuffling around like he wants to bolt, but he doesn't. He promised not to.
How are you feeling? is the first question I manage.
He is so empty and unaware of what's going on, he doesn't even look up. He's thinking way too hard. So I reach for him, and somewhere right before my hand can brush his shoulder, it starts again.
I remember
Yes, that is you sitting there with your hands in your lap and all proper. You told me you were king, and you're still here, looking anxious and coughing every now and then like you're sick.
You've never been sick a day in your life was what you said. And I believed you, like some awestruck idiot. I wasn't even impressed with you, and yet everything that spilled out of your white mouth I took to be true. I didn't trust you, with your vague motions that always looked as if you were slipping fingers into people's pockets rather than spilling forth colorful bands of cloth from your mouth.
There, there you had said to me. Like you were a comfort, someone who knew me well and made me better. You stood over me, feeling righteous but still petting me gently as if you were trying to be careful. All you wanted to do was grab my throat, and in such a perfect moment as that, I wonder why you didn't.
I tried everything to stay with you, follow every word you said like it was better than the sweetest drink or food. It was my drink and food. Under all the darkly colored robes, I saw you and loved you for being that broken up.
I would reach for your hand, and you would always pull away, just in time, looking away from me because it was really just coincidence. And I would crash into you.
Under no circumstances should you tell me
I was probably a little derailed. Everyone told me to calm down, sit down, take a break, don't worry too much about what was going on. But nothing was going on. We were in limbo, on a hiatus that didn't even cover the fact that no one wanted to have anything to do with me. Because that was really what it was all about. Every time I even opened my mouth to speak, everyone seemed to shrink into themselves. They nodded and it was over. They laughed at my jokes and looked sad at my stories, but nothing was getting to them. They always managed to crawl away to someplace else before I could get to them.
I wondered if maybe they were all having some party in their heads, and I was the only one not invited. And it was a big secret, but I knew about it. And they knew I knew it too, so it didn't really matter. They could just leave whenever they wanted to, without me, and with everyone else. With my family and old friends who only smiled weakly when I visited them. Yes, these partyers took my family too, away to some fantastic time and place where no one needed to remember me.
They never called me by my name anymore. They would open their mouths and start to say it, but before it could even come out, they'd swallow it back down. I'd say "it's not healthy to do that. it's probably like swallowing vomit."
They would laugh nervously and turn away to their party.
That sick feeling you get
Distantly he feels the pulse and screams.
While his entire body hurts, he's most aware of his fingertips burning. Yes, the flames flicker and start to climb up through his fingers, burning away to the bone.
He sees whitewhitewhite hot bone, also burning under the flames that continue, swallowing up his hand.
The empty space is twitching in place of the hand. His chest tightens and he feels a little excited. He remembers middle school, telling everyone he loved getting shots and the French teacher calling him an adrenaline junkie.
Right now, though, he's just a masochist. He’s screaming in ecstasy.
His head is throbbing and his brain is saying pull your fucking hand away! but he stays in the same position.
His mom always told him to be careful with the people you love. He was being so careful with everyone else but himself, he wondered if maybe he just hated himself and loved doing it too.
By now, it’s reached his shoulder, having completely eaten away the entirety of his right arm. He feels a rush of mournful longing, feeling a little sick as he tries to raise a hand that isn’t there. In that moment, he is stuck between trying to put out the fire or trying to stoke the flames.
The flames reach up and gently brush his cheek, waking him up with the same ferocity of a splash of cold water. Looking down he notices with little grief that his hand is back.
In front of him is a charred body. "You always did bring back those memories in me."
I will fuck up & you will take the fall
The leader, with come all over his face.
Fucking surprise! I say.
He looks angry beyond all words, all actions. Like there's nothing he can do to show me how betrayed he feels.
That's the point. I say.
He opens his mouth, and spits. He isn't aiming for me, it's not a sort of defiant thing. It's just something he has to do to get the taste out of his mouth, something that's keeping him there right now. I decide to put away any stupid thoughts he has concerning this.
I'm not going to say sorry, because I don't feel bad about it. I say.
His lips quiver a bit, and he brings up his hand to wipe his face. He's more than cleaning himself up, he's going through a process, of breaking down what happened and learning to live with it, maybe even forget it if he's lucky.
Not a fucking chance. I can't help but to snarl.
He brutally wipes his mouth again before licking his lips. He still grimaces and bares his teeth. He nods and tries to turn away.
I really like the way you look right now. I say.
He looks more upset than I've ever seen him before. He's shuffling around like he wants to bolt, but he doesn't. He promised not to.
How are you feeling? is the first question I manage.
He is so empty and unaware of what's going on, he doesn't even look up. He's thinking way too hard. So I reach for him, and somewhere right before my hand can brush his shoulder, it starts again.
I remember
Yes, that is you sitting there with your hands in your lap and all proper. You told me you were king, and you're still here, looking anxious and coughing every now and then like you're sick.
You've never been sick a day in your life was what you said. And I believed you, like some awestruck idiot. I wasn't even impressed with you, and yet everything that spilled out of your white mouth I took to be true. I didn't trust you, with your vague motions that always looked as if you were slipping fingers into people's pockets rather than spilling forth colorful bands of cloth from your mouth.
There, there you had said to me. Like you were a comfort, someone who knew me well and made me better. You stood over me, feeling righteous but still petting me gently as if you were trying to be careful. All you wanted to do was grab my throat, and in such a perfect moment as that, I wonder why you didn't.
I tried everything to stay with you, follow every word you said like it was better than the sweetest drink or food. It was my drink and food. Under all the darkly colored robes, I saw you and loved you for being that broken up.
I would reach for your hand, and you would always pull away, just in time, looking away from me because it was really just coincidence. And I would crash into you.