A Star Named Wormwood

… You think that he was many things, but the only thing he is now is dead.

By Nitrophiliac

You think that he was many things—

He was smart.

He was strong.

He was cold.

But, he was beautiful.

-- but the only thing he is now is dead.

It pains you to look into the glassy surfaces of hypnotic blue eyes, only to see that—

Death.

Death.

Death.

-- they cannot look back.

It was really his fault though, you know, because—

He couldn’t feel your pain.

He turned his back on you.

He didn’t stop you when you had the knife in your hand.

-- you loved him too much to hurt him.

But, you feel so lonely now, so empty, so hollow now that—

He can’t hold you.

He can’t kiss you.

He can’t hate you.

-- he’s gone.

You don’t know what do with yourself anymore, but you know you should—

Never forget him.

Love him forever.

Hide before the police come.

-- learn to move on, forget, and forgive.

Something, though, says that you can’t, something—

The memory of the way he smelled.

The thought of his favorite sweater.

The knowledge that he didn’t love you.

-- that burns his face like a brand in your mind, scorching and painful.

You want to cry so bad, so bad, just to show that you—

Miss him so much, so much, so much.

Love him to death, to death, to death.

Didn’t mean to, God, you didn’t mean to.

-- still care, even as his face grows paler and the stench of decay settles in for the long stay.

It’s not fair that you should have to part with him now, not fair because you still have so much to say—

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Don’t leave me.”

-- that you still haven’t said.

You don’t hear the sirens; nothing in the world matters to you but—

This pain.

This love.

This sorrow.

-- him, and only him.

You don’t hear the scream that tears itself from your throat, that broken-hearted cry as they take his body from you—

They can’t.

Please, don’t!

...Don’t take him.

-- and you feel your spirit dying, your heart dying and crying, for want to just touch him one more time.

You feel nothing when they hand-cuff your wrists except—

Darkness.

Darkness.

Lost.

-- empty.

You wonder if he can still hear you somewhere when your lips part, and nothing but—

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you still.”

-- a quiet sob comes out.

Fin.