Aphotic
we're too afraid.
The locker room was humid and stuffed and the pipes were dripping. You sneered at the sea color of the walls and scratched the ashes of the ground. I remember -do you... can you...- the smell of sweat as we both tried our best to smother it. (”The human odor, so disgusting.”) and all while you tried to sit still and listen to what we didn't want to hear. (”Coming... no, leaving.” “Maybe.”) I tried to press my cheek against the sweat of stone, but you grabbed my arm and dug your fingertips against my skin; digging your grave into my flesh.
“The shadows, I can smell them.”
But you can't, and I know it. You can't even breathe correctly. We're both falling apart. “Not really.” I squeeze your hand, but only because my arm hurts. You let go and we both yield to silence. (”Can you... can you smell them now?”) I wish you'd stop scaring me.
“Can you?” Your eyes, staring right into mine, and I can't look away. Smell... smell... your fear? (”They stink.” “It's the pipes.”) Your eyes are dark- they remind me of the shadows. You're too scared. I knew... time... we didn't have much of it. But you insisted so much, so much.
I pressed the sole of my feet against the rusted metal. “It's going to be alright.” I counted three drops from my far left when you wheezed. (”Coming... coming... don't.” “Shh”) I press my ear against the stone, and I stop breathing. I smelled the transpiration of fear we developed through the days, the dirt we collected through the weeks, the hopelessness we've dragged through the years. The shadows would smell better than this.
“But... I can't listen... there's no...”
“Liar!”
You're breathing too quickly and you're trying to listen what we can't hear. Closing my eyes, I lick my cracked lips and I try to listen. (”Up, down... no... above?”) But the soft murmur of the pipes and its drops don't let me listen. But then.. you, you choke on a mangled sob and you cradle your face. I stare at you, for a moment, and you tell me -no- you mouth what we didn't -couldn't- listen. 'They're coming.'
You're too afraid even when ("Shades, what a bunch of bullshit”) you... you were fearless. But now you're gasping and tripping on words and promises and breaths that will surely be your last. No, we couldn't hear them. No, we couldn't smell them. But, yet, we knew. We always knew. (”Coming from shadows like...” “Nightmares?” “Worse.”) And I can't press my forehead hard enough against the sea colored wall and heave up the canned peaches we found (”Tastes like shit.”) somewhere twenty feet above our heads.
We cower and huddle, covering our heads and holding our breaths as much as we can. I can hear nothing but my heartbeat and the drops of water and your whimpers. (”Crying's for pussies.” “I guess.”) And all I can do is look at my hands through the dim, flickering, lights and wonder what was worth saving.
We died too long ago.
“The shadows, I can smell them.”
But you can't, and I know it. You can't even breathe correctly. We're both falling apart. “Not really.” I squeeze your hand, but only because my arm hurts. You let go and we both yield to silence. (”Can you... can you smell them now?”) I wish you'd stop scaring me.
“Can you?” Your eyes, staring right into mine, and I can't look away. Smell... smell... your fear? (”They stink.” “It's the pipes.”) Your eyes are dark- they remind me of the shadows. You're too scared. I knew... time... we didn't have much of it. But you insisted so much, so much.
I pressed the sole of my feet against the rusted metal. “It's going to be alright.” I counted three drops from my far left when you wheezed. (”Coming... coming... don't.” “Shh”) I press my ear against the stone, and I stop breathing. I smelled the transpiration of fear we developed through the days, the dirt we collected through the weeks, the hopelessness we've dragged through the years. The shadows would smell better than this.
“But... I can't listen... there's no...”
“Liar!”
You're breathing too quickly and you're trying to listen what we can't hear. Closing my eyes, I lick my cracked lips and I try to listen. (”Up, down... no... above?”) But the soft murmur of the pipes and its drops don't let me listen. But then.. you, you choke on a mangled sob and you cradle your face. I stare at you, for a moment, and you tell me -no- you mouth what we didn't -couldn't- listen. 'They're coming.'
You're too afraid even when ("Shades, what a bunch of bullshit”) you... you were fearless. But now you're gasping and tripping on words and promises and breaths that will surely be your last. No, we couldn't hear them. No, we couldn't smell them. But, yet, we knew. We always knew. (”Coming from shadows like...” “Nightmares?” “Worse.”) And I can't press my forehead hard enough against the sea colored wall and heave up the canned peaches we found (”Tastes like shit.”) somewhere twenty feet above our heads.
We cower and huddle, covering our heads and holding our breaths as much as we can. I can hear nothing but my heartbeat and the drops of water and your whimpers. (”Crying's for pussies.” “I guess.”) And all I can do is look at my hands through the dim, flickering, lights and wonder what was worth saving.
We died too long ago.