Pretend You're Dead
Stars, Snowflakes and Fingers.
"Take off your clothes, sweetheart. Lie down on the ground. Pretend you're dead."
And I did just that. I took off my clothes. You're laughing at me. I laid down. You're giving me your hand. I'm pretending I'm dead.
You're lying next to me. We're both dead. You're still laughing at the dead me. I'm holding the dead you.
It's not really funny. But you're still laughing. It's making me upset, but I know you never meant to. So it's alright. You never meant to.
You're wearing your clothes still. I'm not. That's because I pretended to die, you're already dying. It's complicated, like you said it would be.
I'm naked, I'm cold and the only thing I can feel in the air is your warmth, your hand. I'm not completely dead yet.
"Look at the sky; yeah, there's no sky now. Look through the gray. Look carefully and you can see the sky." You hold my hand and point my index finger towards the dead-liver-gray stained ceiling rimming the wide wide navy sky; those were jagged-face clouds that infected the sky's pretty face. You point at the stars, hidden between the dirty gray; you drag my fingers in unseen lines and chains and you start reciting names. Names of things and formations--star clusters--I've never heard before, but they sound so pretty; pretty enough to fit the stars and the sky and the universe.
I'm dying a little bit on the inside when the snow starts biting on my fingertips and heels. But I'm just staring at your warm clouds of breath forming invisible words and I'm smiling.
I'm withering when you start gazing at those explosions swirling millions of light years away from us, swallowing themselves and everything around them. Like you.
You've swallowed my consciousness and feelings whole. You're the blackhole in my smile.
You're the star I've always reached for.
You're my big brother. My God.
You're my God.
You're my God that's making me lie in the vampire-white ground that's sucking away every strand of body heat left in me. You're my God that's leaving me with nothing but 'Dead people are always alone.' You want me to feel what you'll feel.
It's not my fault but I'm your baby sister who's madly in love with you; the innocent girl that'll let the adults, let you, tell her what to do. My rose-colored glasses are stained with your pale face and bleached eyes. You want me to be alone like you.
You left me, but you just went to the corner, right next to that tree, and sat down watching me, crossing your naked arms across your chest, spitting ice and cotton-cloud breaths.
It's not that important, but I can see the ice on the top of your breaths disappear. It's not that significant, but you're getting colder than the snow. You're snow itself.
But I'll pretend you're dead, just like I'm pretending I am.
We're not dead, we're not lonely. I have you, my God, and you have me, your baby sister.
I can see your fingers pointing at the stars, counting them as they explode in my chest. They're busting the stems, the little lung bubbles, within my ribs, blood-ice, and I can't really breathe without breaking another pouch of ice-air. I'm your baby sister and I'm pretending that I'm dead because you told me to.
I'm crawling to you, just because I'm not dead, and placing my hands in your lap. My skin is curling into painful blue ribbons and cracking like those snowflakes did under your heels. I'm pulling up my legs to your lap as well and burying my head in your chest and you're just sleeping away under my blue-ribbon body. You're teaching me how to be dead, aren't you?
You're good.
You're my God who'll never leave me. You're pretending that you would. But you won't. Because you're everywhere. It doesn't matter that you're spitting ice-blood and the corner of your mouth is purple and your fingers are pointing at the sky, tracing stupid star clusters, stupid star clouds.
I'm just pretending I'm dead with you; you're dabbling in the snow's euthanasia but you're not dead. Not to me.
You're not in pain, because you're pretending, right? You're not. Are you cold? To the bone, I bet. Like me with the snowflake viens breaking in my skin and the mountain of cold bursting my lungs.
Gods don't die; you're mine. And you're just pretending; like the naked me.
Your fingers are pointing at the stellar stars still. You're thinking about the pretty supernovas explosion of colors. Maybe it looks like the bruise I'm wearing right now, maybe it looks like the corner of your mouth with that line of maroon outlining your chin.
You're my God. And you're not dead.
You're just dreaming of the stars and supernovas.
Because Gods live in the sky with the stars and the blackholes.
And I did just that. I took off my clothes. You're laughing at me. I laid down. You're giving me your hand. I'm pretending I'm dead.
You're lying next to me. We're both dead. You're still laughing at the dead me. I'm holding the dead you.
It's not really funny. But you're still laughing. It's making me upset, but I know you never meant to. So it's alright. You never meant to.
You're wearing your clothes still. I'm not. That's because I pretended to die, you're already dying. It's complicated, like you said it would be.
I'm naked, I'm cold and the only thing I can feel in the air is your warmth, your hand. I'm not completely dead yet.
"Look at the sky; yeah, there's no sky now. Look through the gray. Look carefully and you can see the sky." You hold my hand and point my index finger towards the dead-liver-gray stained ceiling rimming the wide wide navy sky; those were jagged-face clouds that infected the sky's pretty face. You point at the stars, hidden between the dirty gray; you drag my fingers in unseen lines and chains and you start reciting names. Names of things and formations--star clusters--I've never heard before, but they sound so pretty; pretty enough to fit the stars and the sky and the universe.
I'm dying a little bit on the inside when the snow starts biting on my fingertips and heels. But I'm just staring at your warm clouds of breath forming invisible words and I'm smiling.
I'm withering when you start gazing at those explosions swirling millions of light years away from us, swallowing themselves and everything around them. Like you.
You've swallowed my consciousness and feelings whole. You're the blackhole in my smile.
You're the star I've always reached for.
You're my big brother. My God.
You're my God.
You're my God that's making me lie in the vampire-white ground that's sucking away every strand of body heat left in me. You're my God that's leaving me with nothing but 'Dead people are always alone.' You want me to feel what you'll feel.
It's not my fault but I'm your baby sister who's madly in love with you; the innocent girl that'll let the adults, let you, tell her what to do. My rose-colored glasses are stained with your pale face and bleached eyes. You want me to be alone like you.
You left me, but you just went to the corner, right next to that tree, and sat down watching me, crossing your naked arms across your chest, spitting ice and cotton-cloud breaths.
It's not that important, but I can see the ice on the top of your breaths disappear. It's not that significant, but you're getting colder than the snow. You're snow itself.
But I'll pretend you're dead, just like I'm pretending I am.
We're not dead, we're not lonely. I have you, my God, and you have me, your baby sister.
I can see your fingers pointing at the stars, counting them as they explode in my chest. They're busting the stems, the little lung bubbles, within my ribs, blood-ice, and I can't really breathe without breaking another pouch of ice-air. I'm your baby sister and I'm pretending that I'm dead because you told me to.
I'm crawling to you, just because I'm not dead, and placing my hands in your lap. My skin is curling into painful blue ribbons and cracking like those snowflakes did under your heels. I'm pulling up my legs to your lap as well and burying my head in your chest and you're just sleeping away under my blue-ribbon body. You're teaching me how to be dead, aren't you?
You're good.
You're my God who'll never leave me. You're pretending that you would. But you won't. Because you're everywhere. It doesn't matter that you're spitting ice-blood and the corner of your mouth is purple and your fingers are pointing at the sky, tracing stupid star clusters, stupid star clouds.
I'm just pretending I'm dead with you; you're dabbling in the snow's euthanasia but you're not dead. Not to me.
You're not in pain, because you're pretending, right? You're not. Are you cold? To the bone, I bet. Like me with the snowflake viens breaking in my skin and the mountain of cold bursting my lungs.
Gods don't die; you're mine. And you're just pretending; like the naked me.
Your fingers are pointing at the stellar stars still. You're thinking about the pretty supernovas explosion of colors. Maybe it looks like the bruise I'm wearing right now, maybe it looks like the corner of your mouth with that line of maroon outlining your chin.
You're my God. And you're not dead.
You're just dreaming of the stars and supernovas.
Because Gods live in the sky with the stars and the blackholes.