Gardenhead
of a dead and hanging man
Your eyes feel like they have weights attached, little pieces of metal pulling down at your eyelashes. It might be that you're tired, or bored or so utterly starved all you can is yawn for human contact. You'll shy away, you know, you'll flinch and wince because the last time.
The last time.
With one metallic blink he's there, a soft smile and a little play of age at the corner of his lips. The world forges back, on the skin, in colours and lines. You wonder if it's marked you, at all, for all the wasting and hating and questions shouted to mist shrouded forests on nights colder than your epidermis. You hope it has. You want to look as much like a map as he does, so very written on and so very lived. Living; an experience you crave and fear.
He says, do you want a drink, and you say yes, please, I'm sothirsty. What for, you don't say, but he knows and the faucet goes untouched as he ducks under the counter to a dark little cupboard that may or may not hold your heart in an poisonous grip. He knows these things, this fair man with tattoos of wind, because he learned you. His brain imprinted yours and he just. He's inside your thoughts and that feels too close, too much but you. You can't.
Move away, that is. From him, that is.
Jack is here now, too, and you're so very happy to see him. You drink him in and you bathe in his numbness, not feeling the prickle of your very own stubble while you slip from your mind.
This is it, you don't know, this is what I never want to be.
The last time.
With one metallic blink he's there, a soft smile and a little play of age at the corner of his lips. The world forges back, on the skin, in colours and lines. You wonder if it's marked you, at all, for all the wasting and hating and questions shouted to mist shrouded forests on nights colder than your epidermis. You hope it has. You want to look as much like a map as he does, so very written on and so very lived. Living; an experience you crave and fear.
He says, do you want a drink, and you say yes, please, I'm sothirsty. What for, you don't say, but he knows and the faucet goes untouched as he ducks under the counter to a dark little cupboard that may or may not hold your heart in an poisonous grip. He knows these things, this fair man with tattoos of wind, because he learned you. His brain imprinted yours and he just. He's inside your thoughts and that feels too close, too much but you. You can't.
Move away, that is. From him, that is.
Jack is here now, too, and you're so very happy to see him. You drink him in and you bathe in his numbness, not feeling the prickle of your very own stubble while you slip from your mind.
This is it, you don't know, this is what I never want to be.