Sweat, Blood, and Music.
Sweat, Blood, and Music ♥
Just close your eyes and breathe. Shut your worn out eyelids over dilated pupils and inhale that smell. The smell of smoke and grime and music. The smell of memories. Bite down on your lip and a few moments later, taste the blood on your tongue.
Let those memories wash over you. Memories of a drunken, mutilated relationship that lasted less than a year. A relationship that should be nothing compared with so many others. A relationship that meant more to you than anything else ever could.
Tremblingly, breathe in the smell again. Oh god, that smell. It reminds you of spin the bottle, songs about jail, cigarettes, sex in hotel rooms.
And now you can hear the music. Not the soft, flowing notes that love is supposed to be about; but violent guitar riffs and thundering drum beats. The music that your love was about. The soundtrack to your heart. The soundtrack to almost a year.
The music surrounds you. It dives into your ears and wraps itself around every bone in your skull. The music won’t stop shaking you, giving you convulsions, reminding you. Reminding you of him.
You can still taste the blood from your lip. Savour it, and remember when you used to have his blood in your mouth. When he had your blood in his mouth. His blood always tasted better than yours.
It’s hot in here. Far, far too hot. You’re glad. You want the heat to take over you. You want the heat to control you, sink into your every pore until you are drenched in the sweat. You want to be drenched and shaken and bleeding all at once. Until it turns into a dance of sweat and blood and music.
Sweat, blood and music, because that was all the two of you had. Now you’re thinking of memories again and it’s hurting. It’s hurting far too much. You need that dance of sweat, blood and music, but everything you do just seems to get you further and further away from him.
You can screw a thousand sweaty bleeding musicians and you’ll be dancing a dance of sweat, blood and music but it won’t be enough. It will never be enough.
Twist and turn as you dance, dance faster and faster to try and reach the destination you need but you never will. Spin and twirl and move but all that happens is you’re moving too much, too quickly and you aren’t breathing. You aren’t breathing.
You aren’t breathing. Ohmygod. Breathe.
Breathe. You have to breathe.
They say it’s better if you do. Your heart might say otherwise, but trusting it before was clearly a mistake, so lets ignore it.
Breathe.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
Now you’ve breathed in that smell again. The smell of smoke. Of alcohol. Of sweat. Your head isn’t spinning so badly since you breathed, and you can taste the blood once more. Beads of sweat slip down your forehead and you take another breath. You bite down on your lip again, harder than last time so you get to taste more blood. Maybe if you pretend enough, it could be his blood.
You’re sweating and bleeding, and still the music thrashes through your brain. Sweat, blood and music. That was all the two of you had, all you needed, aside from each other. Take another breath of the tight, smoky air and hold on to those three things that you have left.
Sweat. Bleed. Sing.
Sweat. Blood. Music.
You wish with all your heart that you had the fourth thing, the missing ingredient, but you just don’t. You don’t have him any more. You don’t get to be pressed against him as he sweats, you don’t get to taste his blood, and you definitely can’t listen to his music.
Maybe some day things can be the way they used to again. Maybe one day you won’t have to dance and spin in a stinking, dirty club just to fool yourself into thinking he’s here. Maybe one day you won’t miss the taste of his blood so much that you have to rip into yourself and taste your own, a pale imitation. Maybe one day you can stand utterly still in a dirty rock club, sweat dripping from every pore, blood drumming through your ears, eyes watching him play again.
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe one day you just won’t need it. Maybe one day you will be perfectly content to lie in a cool place, healed wounds, silence. Without sweat. Without blood. Without music.
But right now as you stretch out an arm to the sky of strobe lights and open your hand, you can just taste smoke and sweat and you know what you need. Today, tomorrow, maybe every day from now on, you need to remind yourself. You need sweat, blood and music to remind you of how it felt to be alive.
Let those memories wash over you. Memories of a drunken, mutilated relationship that lasted less than a year. A relationship that should be nothing compared with so many others. A relationship that meant more to you than anything else ever could.
Tremblingly, breathe in the smell again. Oh god, that smell. It reminds you of spin the bottle, songs about jail, cigarettes, sex in hotel rooms.
And now you can hear the music. Not the soft, flowing notes that love is supposed to be about; but violent guitar riffs and thundering drum beats. The music that your love was about. The soundtrack to your heart. The soundtrack to almost a year.
The music surrounds you. It dives into your ears and wraps itself around every bone in your skull. The music won’t stop shaking you, giving you convulsions, reminding you. Reminding you of him.
You can still taste the blood from your lip. Savour it, and remember when you used to have his blood in your mouth. When he had your blood in his mouth. His blood always tasted better than yours.
It’s hot in here. Far, far too hot. You’re glad. You want the heat to take over you. You want the heat to control you, sink into your every pore until you are drenched in the sweat. You want to be drenched and shaken and bleeding all at once. Until it turns into a dance of sweat and blood and music.
Sweat, blood and music, because that was all the two of you had. Now you’re thinking of memories again and it’s hurting. It’s hurting far too much. You need that dance of sweat, blood and music, but everything you do just seems to get you further and further away from him.
You can screw a thousand sweaty bleeding musicians and you’ll be dancing a dance of sweat, blood and music but it won’t be enough. It will never be enough.
Twist and turn as you dance, dance faster and faster to try and reach the destination you need but you never will. Spin and twirl and move but all that happens is you’re moving too much, too quickly and you aren’t breathing. You aren’t breathing.
You aren’t breathing. Ohmygod. Breathe.
Breathe. You have to breathe.
They say it’s better if you do. Your heart might say otherwise, but trusting it before was clearly a mistake, so lets ignore it.
Breathe.
There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
Now you’ve breathed in that smell again. The smell of smoke. Of alcohol. Of sweat. Your head isn’t spinning so badly since you breathed, and you can taste the blood once more. Beads of sweat slip down your forehead and you take another breath. You bite down on your lip again, harder than last time so you get to taste more blood. Maybe if you pretend enough, it could be his blood.
You’re sweating and bleeding, and still the music thrashes through your brain. Sweat, blood and music. That was all the two of you had, all you needed, aside from each other. Take another breath of the tight, smoky air and hold on to those three things that you have left.
Sweat. Bleed. Sing.
Sweat. Blood. Music.
You wish with all your heart that you had the fourth thing, the missing ingredient, but you just don’t. You don’t have him any more. You don’t get to be pressed against him as he sweats, you don’t get to taste his blood, and you definitely can’t listen to his music.
Maybe some day things can be the way they used to again. Maybe one day you won’t have to dance and spin in a stinking, dirty club just to fool yourself into thinking he’s here. Maybe one day you won’t miss the taste of his blood so much that you have to rip into yourself and taste your own, a pale imitation. Maybe one day you can stand utterly still in a dirty rock club, sweat dripping from every pore, blood drumming through your ears, eyes watching him play again.
Maybe, maybe not. Maybe one day you just won’t need it. Maybe one day you will be perfectly content to lie in a cool place, healed wounds, silence. Without sweat. Without blood. Without music.
But right now as you stretch out an arm to the sky of strobe lights and open your hand, you can just taste smoke and sweat and you know what you need. Today, tomorrow, maybe every day from now on, you need to remind yourself. You need sweat, blood and music to remind you of how it felt to be alive.