Author: Skyward Ending PM
Trainwrecks describe me better than the drugs that are supposed to keep me sane. Stream-of-consciousness.Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 518 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 12-31-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3087951
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Trainwrecks describe me better than the drugs that are supposed to keep me sane
Trainwrecks are what happened to my head when I tried to clear my heart. I'm disgusted with myself for thinking that I could put these vestiges behind me like they were nothing but stones when really they're mountains, crumbling me to bits and I'm drowning in them; nothing has so better kicked me to the curb.
Deserted [but not really, the choir sings] my wanderlost rocks back and forth, cracking this eggshell happiness to leave behind only wretched hollow in its wake.
I'm tired of pretending, love - my heart's jumped out the window and my mind's not far behind. It speeds through my veins and fountains from my mouth, splatters on walls and bathroom tiles. My skull is aching from its own weight nodding on my neck, like foxes biting into spines and shaking screaming prey. Conceal and curtain just as you're dancing on the stage, all makeup smiles and plastered words glued to falsehood gasps, but behind star-closed doors you're retching and crying those paints off your face, clutching yourself like it will save you. There were promises but you're balking at holding them because there have been enough lies before, you're as fragile as day-old spiderwebs waving in the wind, remembering how to make love but oh-so afraid to because you're scarred with moons and coarse metal edges you mistook for salvation. Rampant thoughts trample across your mirages, crushing them carefully under cloven toes that create earthquakes to make you just want the vibrations to quiet to simple trembles; no, you want it to be as still and silent as your grave, and won't mind if the tombstones engrave themselves now, tied with wicked-hair ribbons and bows to resemble celebration. Folksong drives you to the past like cars on 98 until you're stuck in battering reminiscence and horrid missing-you's. "Warm to sarcastic in 3.5" makes your heartbeat freeze, then stutter until your lips-tongue-teeth follow suit [these seconds are fleeting swift, you can't catch it without cameras crashing through your line of sight].
You aren't making a single inch of sense. I hope you know that.
(I never asked you to fix me)
foolish foolish foolish
(you taught me how to light fires and breathe deep.)
i'm mad as rabbits and sad as one too
(i thought you knew)
(i told you.)
I love hard and die deep - letting go has never been my strong suit.
(embarrassing as fucking hell)
(but i'm sorry too)
[bones heal only in bird-like ways if you have the chance, but the way you've cracked them you're as hopeless as flakes of bone.]
The clarity of the moment has never hurt so much, but the truth is that you're loving in a roundabout way, lost-causing to the ends of this pitying earth, never to be as well read as that boy you could-might have loved.