Drafts

of the youth of the unripe chords that swallowed the horns of jericho, and of his rotted flesh festooned in the garlands of decay which consumes all of matter, of the mold that which is flowering on the tender cusps of girdled cheekbones, birdslain then, skin unsheathed but to reveal the malefic gleaning of corpselight, of the illuminated bulbs of the viscid irises that which see the coiled center of the underworld, the eyes which curdle with the abominable hue of sapphire

I always had the feeling that if I took a pen to your skin, the words would show up perfectly. You were fragile as paper, mine to tear apart as I wanted.

I could tell that you thought I was there to protect you from the outside world and hide you from the all too nightmares that lurked outside your front door.

Delusion is a wonderful thing and it was only a matter of time before I found out if your heart was as fragile as your skin appeared to be.

"I've had a stupidly massive crush on you since I threw up all over your favourite shoes and you punched me in the face. Sorry."

There's three things you can do once you're get kicked out of your house and you have less then five hours before you turn into a shaking ball of mess because you need the drugs so bad there's only three things you can do to get that wonderful fix. Steal, cheat and lie.

She has cheeks like apples and a smile on a grapevine, her face sprung from a patch of black peonies.

You shouldn't have to ask for your audience's attention. You should demand it with the very power of your performance and nothing else.

She breathed into his neck, a forlong sigh stretching across his skin as a silent confession. “Don’t leave me,” she’d whisper. “Please don’t. Please don’t leave.” Her arms were like brambles around his neck, fingers like thorns and lips like roots. This was where she was meant to be; ensnared around him, joined as one. If he left, so would her breath.
- - -
She couldn’t walk with heels, much less strut around like those models she hailed with endless devotion. Her fingers were so thin; no existing ring would ever be able to adorn them without falling into cemented oblivion. Her whole constitution was so fragile – the only thing keeping her together was those rags that fluttered around her figure. People would stare at overly accentuated collar bones of her, wondering if she was nearing death or recovering from it. Boys would glance at her, aware of the beauty she once had (has or will have) but their gaze never lingered beyond her face. Her rags, those foreboding stitched up rags, would hide her personal essence from the rest of the world. She was a girl shrouded in fashion.

might post as a drabble, actually.

This has been on my desktop in a notepad document for FOREVER.

"You tried to help me, now I want to try helping you."

"Yeah, but I didn't help at all, did I?"

"No but I'll be fine. Something will pick me up eventually. I'll even look forward to it."

“Because that’s what you do, Sophie,” he yelled, throwing the books to the floor. “You push and push people away until they don’t want to be around you anymore!”

"Don't say that. God always answers our prayers. Not always in the way we want and not always straight away but he always, always answers them somehow... eventually."

"Eventually. Right. I'll just wait another fifteen years, shall I? Maybe then I'll get more than a resounding fuck off from the powers that be."

She sat in the sun, holding the manila envelope just to the place where her heart should be. The summer air filled her lungs and the tears would never come even though she knew what was inside.
"You ready?" he said from behind her.
"No." The single word came out in more as a breath.
"This is what you prepared for."
She loved how soft his voice was, how calm as opposed to her own insides: rotten and falling to a million pieces.
"Let's finish it."

"What if we don't find him? What if- what if he stays lost forever or what if he wandered off a cliff and broke his neck or what if they got him, Frank, what if he's one of them now, what the fuck are we supposed to do?"

"Shh, Mikey, he'll be fine, Mikey, just calm down, it's going to be okay, we're going to find him and I'm going to take care of you and we are going to get through this alive, I promise."

I'll stay here with you 'til I fall asleep.

-

I don't know, but I really like this line.
It sounds like it would fit with a sweet, yet sad story.
At least that's what I think anyway.

He knows it's wrong. Unnatural. A sin. Taboo.

But there's something in him that has snapped, and now, he just doesn't fucking care. He doesn't care if it's wrong, if it's taboo, if it's unnatural, if it's a sin that he'll probably be sent to Hell for.

He just wants to know what his brother tastes like, how his brother's warm skin would feel pressed against his own, how it would feel to have all and give all to a person he shares the same genetic make up with.

---

That's been on my mind for a really, really long time.

The first time Brendon talks to Spencer, it’s about smoothies.

(This isn’t all that surprising, considering Brendon works at a Smoothie Hut and that’s where they meet, but one day it’ll bother Brendon that their first conversation isn’t about something deep and meaningful like art or music or, he doesn’t know, nature or something.

Spencer will roll his eyes and tell him if he wanted deep and meaningful conversations, he should’ve fallen for Ryan instead.)

In the dim light, the ink of his tattoo traced up his arm in a shade of grey that made her think of ghosts.

--

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Please, can I go without playing this game today? I’m too upset and too damn tired to figure out what you want me to say. I don’t open up and you get mad at me. I do open up and you get sick of me. There’s no way to win with you, just tell me what exactly you want from me and we’ll move on from there, how does that sound?”

“For Christ's sake. I’m only human, I’m not a fucking saint, okay?”

“I never wanted you to be a saint! I wanted you to be yourself! But you know what? You couldn’t do that, not for me.”

“Stop expecting so much from me, for fucks sake!”

“Why don’t you get it? I don’t expect a damn thing from you. Want to know what I expect from you? I expect you to push me away, get tired of me, get mad at me, say stupid things, want stupid things and do stupid things. I expect you to swear and shout and drink and end up hating me at the end of the day because I’m like that and so are you and we don’t make fucking sense when we’re together! But we fit. And that’s what I expect from you. To fit in with me, to follow my weird train of thought and laugh at the end of it. To make fun of me and treat me like a fool. To get bored of my stories, to get me drunk, to fuck me senseless at two in the morning and hold me afterwards. To care too much when somebody else hurts me because you feel like it’s your job to protect me. To let me wander around your house wearing nothing but one of your white shirts because we both know it turns you on. I expect you to make fun of me for my dress sense and my fucked up sense of humour, and I’ll make fun of you because you’re a geek and you can’t spell. So don’t tell me I’m expecting too much of you because I know you a lot fucking better than you think.”

"Look, I can't deal with this right now."

“Then goodbye. Forget everything I ever said. I can’t always wait for you.”

“Who are you trying to convince, me or you? Because we both know you’ll keep on waiting. That’s how we work. I fuck up but you always wait for me to sort myself out. Why would you leave?”

“Because I’m tired of being the one who’s left behind.”

--

Cheekbones sharp enough to slice butter with. He can’t decide whether she’s a drug addict, an anorexic or just an ethereal creature that he’s lucky enough to encounter. It turns out, she’s his everything and she’s got eyes that hold a whole world inside.

He opened his eyes to hands on his cheeks and tears on hers. "I tried to fix you," she said, frantically, between raspy, rushed breaths. "I tried to fix you, but I'm not like you. My hands are so clumsy."

---

He was not Noah, of course, and slowly, that came to her. His arms were not as strong as Noah’s, his shoulders not as broad. His shirt was made of a delicate, fine fabric and was not littered with loose seams and holes. He didn’t smell of the rushing river and the thrill of the abandoned woods, just metal and cologne and spearmint gum.

He was not Noah, not at all, but he was all she had.

Jesse misses his bike. More than Sal and Carmine’s pizza and a roof over his head and a bed that isn’t an unoccupied doorway or a park bench, he misses the freedom afforded to him by two wheels and a pair of handlebars.

His words still fell like silver-black wisps, beads of ache and sadness dribbling down the side.
She came to him- she saw the memory whispering behind the veils in his sleepless eyes.
Hands unafraid of the death behind, she ripped away the cloth and made him a new wardrobe and bed.
She slept in that bed with those weary eyes and dressed him each morning in lace and compromise.

They call me Phoenix, because I rose from the ashes, the smoldering remains of a place I used to belong to. I'm sure I had a real name once, but it's gone now, just like the rest of my life, a distant star, an irretrievable illusion that's dead by now anyway. Obliterated, not even faint traces of the past linger with me. Like the creature of lore that I am named after, I have a new life, molded from the chaos of my old one.

---
It's strange, how empty someone becomes without memories. I'm hollow now, agonized by the fact that I cannot remember my family, or my home, or the touch of human skin against my own, but somehow words, these arbitrary combinations of stresses and syllables, remain in tact upon my clumsy tongue.

---
Like the sudden stirring of a heartbeat, or the first flutter of a bird's wing, we are overcome, carried by this glittering force, propelled into action by it, this love so strong it moves the stars.