The Derisive You, The Superfluous You He’ll remain to celebrate your victories, triumphs, risks, and aptitude for the worst kind of feeling: the ones that claw at your chest along with you, reap a pattern into the fringes of your soul. and perhaps it was the break of saline down the center of your cheek that signified in itself a break of an entirely different kind—one that couldn’t be hidden with the swipe of deft fingers as they cleared the substance that had once held so much more than the fundamentals of a saline compound. He’d trace the infinitesimal markings on your hands until they became larger, until they illustrated a life whereas it took such a gesture to center the feeling. He’d trace the holes in your skin—the steadfast reminder of that place back in the time you were so lonely. And perhaps, in all probability, you still are. He’ll trace the tendons, the obstructions, protrusions—he’ll love you, he swears, he’ll be good if you are. And you were his perfect constant, the acidic notion to drip unwarranted from his tongue. The one to blame and the one to rely. The stipulation with an initiative—you’ve become so weary, tired…stolid. Misery never did anything for you—you acknowledge it insatiably—but he isn’t helping. Then we won’t be any good love, will we? Through his threadbare vindication and sultry goodbye’s there’s a mark of finality in the way he grins just a little tritely, a bit more sadly. You scratch a little more with each passing day, bare your teeth a little more at the state, thinking it might very well be your last breath, and it should be. But it isn’t. fingers crawl against your arm. He traces the lines, the more threadbare markings of your existence. It sifts into your conscious like the untreatable disease, an unguarded athymia to your pulled tight grey. They notice—the four—and it doesn’t help. Everything bulges a bit, your eyes darken, and it’s hard to register now, betwixt from between. you can’t quite figure how it became this way, now, you’re just a little insane—just a little diminutive. But you don’t. it’s a perfect ebony now—no more lying—and it’s not so long—but he still rubs it into your head. There’s a thumping against your chest. No, We won’t be any good love, we’ll be grand.
Enamored by: 京小父様 (pictured above), Moleskine, ronsard, Hokkaidou. Dislikes: Chewy Cookies, referring to Dir en Grey as "Diru"..., ass-hats who take Kyo seriously (He's a dork midge who has a boner for Star-Wars...really...)
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