When you made me crazy
We were not afraid
Just star-crossed runaways
No looking back now
Yesterday's weather was a metaphor for our whole life together. It started off hazy and humid, then cleared to beautiful blue skies and breezy heat before the black clouds rolled in and all of the sudden our words were weighed down by rain, cleaved in half and singed by lightning, muted by the thunder that heaved across the landscape like an earthquake, forcing me in, forcing him out.
He wrung his hands, ate his fist. Started and stopped speaking more times than I could count. I looked out the window at the rain. I refused to look at him.
I'm running out of grand gestures, Peanut.
So don't make any.
Ah. I see you're speaking to me again.
Not actually.
That's actually no-
I know what it is, Locket!
He's never going to see me as an adult, never going to see me as an equal. His faith is a show, like everything else, confidence painted on like a mask just as he walks onstage, bravery suit stepped into for a perfect fit that is ripped off and torn to pieces the moments the lights come up full.
At least he has a mask. Hell, at least he has a whole suit. Doesn't matter if it's real or not. If you don't have tools, you can't use them, and that's where he and I differ.
I walk out on stage flayed, without skin. Blood pooling around my feet, skull sawed open, brain prickly and visible for all. I can't gather myself in one body, can't stretch my tattooed skin over it sufficiently anymore. Ever. Looking back I don't think I ever could.
The only weapon I have is silence. Ironic, since it's the only thing I'm truly afraid of anymore.
That's actually a lie but whatever.
He wrung his hands, ate his fist. Started and stopped speaking more times than I could count. I looked out the window at the rain. I refused to look at him.
I'm running out of grand gestures, Peanut.
So don't make any.
Ah. I see you're speaking to me again.
Not actually.
That's actually no-
I know what it is, Locket!
He's never going to see me as an adult, never going to see me as an equal. His faith is a show, like everything else, confidence painted on like a mask just as he walks onstage, bravery suit stepped into for a perfect fit that is ripped off and torn to pieces the moments the lights come up full.
At least he has a mask. Hell, at least he has a whole suit. Doesn't matter if it's real or not. If you don't have tools, you can't use them, and that's where he and I differ.
I walk out on stage flayed, without skin. Blood pooling around my feet, skull sawed open, brain prickly and visible for all. I can't gather myself in one body, can't stretch my tattooed skin over it sufficiently anymore. Ever. Looking back I don't think I ever could.
The only weapon I have is silence. Ironic, since it's the only thing I'm truly afraid of anymore.
That's actually a lie but whatever.