hey christine. me and you got the same problems, girl, written out neatly on the paper thin flesh of colorless arms; slivers of silver bridges crossing rivulets of blue. we play our arms like morbid violins, razor-blade reeds forging beautiful music written in crimson ink that runs off the page, stark and white. the history of our hardships have been carved into the stone tablets of our soul, forever written and irreversible. our pincushion lungs, punched through with the merciless needles of biting words and awkward half-glances sent through crowded hallways; each shaky breath is a stab to the heart, another criss-cross for the annals.

and you, dreyfus, well. we've always been a like in more ways than one. our mouths have been sewn shut by the same boring acid-glares that christine gets. from the rawest lips pass the rawest words, you know, so i can only speak the truth. we bury ourselves in clothes in hopes of becoming ghosts lost in the background of the living. for millenia it seems, the sweet elixir of life has not slipped through the impenetrable fortress of our lips, to slide down our throat in graceful calming movements to remove the pins from our grenade hearts, ready to burst into millions of tiny shards, fragments of a soul lost and ready for repair. ready for replacement. because something went wrong with us. the way the gun feels in our calloused hands, finger on the trigger and ready to pull, is not right; we can't love a gun like we can love a person, they say. violence is the spouse of death. wherever one goes, the other swiftly follows, like the vulture stalking its free meal. furrowed brows and hardest frowns matched with clenched fists and teeth can only mean trouble somewhere along the twisted time-line of our delinquent lives. there's something wrong with our heads, drey, dear. they told us.

kristen? you still there? or have you vanished, just like you've always wanted to? i'll rejoice the day you finally slip away, carried off by some distant wind that's been whispering in your ear for a full year now, breathing its sweet voice into lustful ears and playfully slapping a face that grows gaunter and gaunter as the days are chiseled from the year tediously by a father time that's forgotten us all. how many ribs can you count now, curling underneath that thin layer of flesh that you so desperately wish would melt away like wax from a candle? the flame flickers dangerously within you, each gust of air that raises your tiny chest threatening to blow it out and bring resolute darkness tumbling in front of your eyes, like the final curtain drawn together with a whoosh of determination and proud claps. the tracks have grown longer, haven't they, and the late-night retches shorter as you implode, falling into yourself as if your stomach's turned into a black hole, eating you from the inside-out. i can tell by the hollows underneath your eyes, deep purple pools i can trace with an easy going fingertip, that you're so close that your goal, to becoming the phantasm you've always fantasized.

and how could i forget you, richard? even i have fallen victim to your haughty puffed-out chest and strong arms that cradle and hold one second but are swift to push away the next. parted lips panting in desperation, in desire during the onset of your next erotic bedtime fairy tale come true, are about as new-fangled as things go nowadays. truth is, i knew that daddy was always a little overly zealous as fist contacts face, drawing ink-stains across handsome expressions before that first crack in a faltering voice, the first trip into self-discovery. we hide ourselves, and you've found the perfect hiding spot, richard: in between bed sheets and within the steady motions of false love and one-time adoration. the girls that scream your name in repetition, richardrichardohrichard, are your drug, the only way you can cope with the nightmare your fuck up parents have created for you. the real world doesn't want you anyways, doesn't want any of us.

ah, yes, my circle of friends. we are forever bound by this one street, neighbors till the end of time. we'll always play street hockey here, or seek refuge in the old treehouse at the corner, long ago abandoned by its owner. we're the dust hovering thick above the dirt road, stamped here by time; our stories play out across the gravel like ancient text, and we still live to burn eyes and clog throats.

we said our choked good-byes long ago, and here we are, dust in the road.

Inspired, quite literally, by some dust hovering above my grandma's road. They were people-shaped and in a circle, and this whole piece just fell into place within the next second. It's a bit different from my usual writing style, but I hope you like it all the same. Don't forget to read and review!