I spent the past 30 minutes crying about your poetry It's absolutely beautiful 🥺
oh my god thank u so much!! i don’t check this blog often so i’m seeing this Super late but i appreciate it so much 💙💜
I spent the past 30 minutes crying about your poetry It's absolutely beautiful 🥺
oh my god thank u so much!! i don’t check this blog often so i’m seeing this Super late but i appreciate it so much 💙💜
- everything looks better from the edge.
- the end of gavin’s world / the end of ryan’s world.
mistakes lead me to you, the way a river leads to safety or a harmless drink at sixteen leads to a dozen every night when you’re twenty-three or ancient rome leads to ruin.
we’re a collapse waiting to happen, a tragedy in the making, a story where you turn the page expecting it to continue but it doesn’t. it just stops, it just ends, i just love you endlessly even though you’re gone.
say, i build your goodbye in my head well before i build our future because the ones i love have a habit of leaving and i suspect you’ll be no different. say, i try not to wonder if you love me too.
but maybe if you could see the best in my worst, i could be something worth loving.
- turned to sorrow
criminals rattle when they run, pockets of shell casings and bullets and teeth and bones and the crosses they used to hang from their necks when they were young. young, five years old kneeling to a god who these days would send them to a hell they’ve long stopped believing in, now twenty five years and counting and still holding onto five years old. young, twenty five years old clinging to a gun that’s the closest to praying they’ll ever get. until they’re on their deathbed.
someone, somewhere, laughs, and their words are the weakest attempt at reinventing truth that any of them have ever heard. not a lie, not quite, but a parody of every time their religion of non believers called out for a thing they haven’t considered in years.
“everyone prays, then,” someone says, reinventing truth.
“not me,” michael says, defiance in his features, and suddenly he’s young, fifteen years old screaming at anyone that will listen to help him. someone in the street, preferably, but you can never really tell if god hears you. maybe he’s listening, or maybe he’s got an angel call centre that deals with prayers begging from sinners, or maybe he left a long time ago and michael should burrow through his drawer and throw that cross out his window like he’s been meaning to do for years.
throw the cross, wash every word he was once taught from his throat, and do his best attempt at pretending the inevitability of his end doesn’t scared him. like some days he doesn’t almost put down his gun or burn all his money or jump town with the impossible venture in mind of making an honest living after the mess he’s left behind in los santos.
“everyone prays, then,” someone says, reworking the fabric of michael’s being.
“not me,” he lies.
- michael’s done some kneeling in his time and it has nothing to do with prayer or god.
gavin remembers summers, the way the city burned orange at the tips during sunset and how the police were always too busy chasing flames to notice. it wasn’t quite gold, not the way gavin wished, all those old shirts of his tucked and buried into his dresser like all his friends resting in all those unnamed graves in the cemetery.
he can reach out and touch the setting sun, filter the orange light through his spread fingers, but he can’t climb that balcony to get close enough to the sky to ask god for a favour. he hasn’t earned a favour, couldn’t even pray without having to wipe his stained red hands on his jeans. but, maybe, maybe, maybe– if he wishes hard enough, all those dead things will forgive him. maybe orange skyrises and long nights won’t haunt him the same as they used to.
- the sun burns the city at sunset, and gavin burns in an entirely different way.
you ever seen a funeral before?, michael asks, and his tone is sincere enough that gavin shakes for three days while remembering the words. some days, he wants to tell michael no, that the only funeral he’s been to is his own– dead years, dead childhood, barely living adult whose bodies live miles apart. gavin’s never been whole, secret. gavin’s a split of criminal and boy who never quite grew up the way he wanted, not a secret.
you ever seen a body break before?, ryan asks, and gavin watches the way his eyes flicker pleasantly at the thought, can’t sleep without seeing it. nights pass, weekends and holidays and birthdays, and no one dies but gavin stop being able to tell the dead from the living a long time ago. at the end of the day, it’s all the same, and heavy whispers in a shot up bank make gavin wonder if ryan ever thinks about him the way he thinks about corpses.
you think we’ll see eachother again?, gavin asks, and he can’t gauge the air in the room but he knows it’s tight to breathe. everyone’s staring like they’ve seen a ghost, like jesus christ himself rose up and predicted the end of days. the boy in gavin shrinks, the criminal in him reaches for his gun and ignores how alive the city is as it wakes up around them. gavin’s hands are cold as if they’re dead, and maybe this love was never meant to be a whole one; quiet, like this early morning, like this eulogy.
- open casket.
they keep asking about you, as if i haven’t searched a hundred miles of this city for any traces of your ghost. you’re a hungry criminal, nothing is ever good enough for you, and you swallow your resetting lives like whiskey- like burning, like demons. i’m chasing patterns and voices in the wind and this constant pounding in my chest that loves you.
they keep saying i shouldn’t, but i think about shaking your shoulders and kissing your spirited mouth and it gets hard to do anything right after that. hungry criminals opening their mouth for bullets never do live long enough, so my hands are too human and alive and it’s even worse now that you’re not. everything i love dies, and everyone becomes a ghost.
eventually, eventually, eventually.
- mind over matter, leaving over love.
time, like many other things, is fractured. he tries to hold onto the two languages he knows, as if the back and forth of mixing up his words can make up for all of this running out. sand, golden and familiar, slips through his fingers as easily as his lover’s hand did the day they died, and it’s all running out. as if god gave it a curfew and it’s going to make it on time, but it’s going to take him and everything he loves with it. mostly, he imagines walls not having clocks and bodies not aging with the days and people not having birthdays or anniversaries to celebrate. if he closes his eyes, the world stands still, the timers freeze, his lover doesn’t die on impact.
time, like many other things, is fractured. like his heart, like his voice split down the middle as he screamed his throat raw, like his bruised body always trying to make it just one more day. time has no business doing this- being this. everything humans invent becomes cruel, there is no hesitance to that business. only sorrow that it had to be like this and now it cannot stop. for all these hours he has learnt to ignore, he sits in the celebration of sunset and wonders if these things will ever be gentler. if he closes his eyes, the sun still sets, the birds go home the same time they do most evenings, his lover doesn’t have the time to say goodbye.
time is fractured, is unforgivable and unforgettable, and will give you the seconds you need to die because it already gave you years to live. gavin spends his short life missing everything he never did right, and trying to forgive out with failing hands what to do with all these broken hours.
we can’t forgive ourselves for these things we didn’t mean to do, and i can’t forgive myself for not knowing how to die. trust me, i’ve tried, and tried, and thrown myself under a collapsing grey sky waiting for it to finally finish the job.
there are a handful of things i don’t know, haven’t bothered to figure out, and ninety nine out of a hundred of them have every letter of your name stamped onto them;
firstly, i think i love you. sometimes i worry if you knew, all this dying would be for nothing because you’d kill me before i could kill myself.
secondly, i think you love me. but most times i mistake these identical rings on our hands as a way to identify each other’s bodies and not as a promise. it doesn’t have to be anything, it doesn’t, but i twist the gold around my finger and it means too much.
thirdly, everything i haven’t bothered to figure out fits under three umbrellas of tragedy- you love me, and you don’t, and these burrowed out holes in my heart have enough room for all these things to occupy. all ninety nine of them.
there is this one thing that i don’t know, that has more to do with me than you or us, and it’s the only thing i will never say out loud. one day i’ll slip and tell you i love you, and that i think you love me too, and that there are a couple of things attached to those thoughts that are more insecurity than secret.
the one hundredth thing i don’t know, that i have counted on my fingers like sheep while trying to sleep with police sirens in my ears: do i even deserve to be here?
the one thing i do know: i’m lonely, and it’s taken me five years to realise i can’t do this alone any more than i can’t keep trying to get myself killed like this.
- if i had a second life, maybe i could’ve done something with all this wasted time
i. these bad intentions are killing me. even though my intentions with you, your heart, your body- they’ve never been anything less than pure, than my hands reaching for you as if they don’t know how not to.
ii. i’ll admit i’m not quite the best at keeping things good, at knowing when to put down my self destruct button and let the world do the ruin for once. we’re all claws and teeth and guns and knives, and bad intentions. sometimes, sometimes- sometimes, i wonder what will destroy this for us first. as long as it’s not me, i don’t mind; kill me if you want, just let me try to keep a good thing good for once.
iii. this ill-intent sits above my collarbone on the good days. on the bad, it’s in my nails, digging harsh into the flesh of your arm and begging you to let the police catch us. on the real bad days, it sits heavy under my tongue and lets you kiss it from my mouth until you’re dragging me through the night with your gun and a plan. i don’t know what i’m doing to you, but it’s not good, and it’s not gentle, and i dream of me dying in your arms almost every time i close my eyes so what the fuck are we supposed to do with all of this?
iv. this being us, being the rubble in our shoes and hair, and our saliva pink with blood from biting our tongues too hard. it was in the explosion that rocked our feet and threw us against a wall clutching broken ribs.
v. you know the story of adam and eve, you know if i had the choice i’d pull part of my snapped rib from my chest and try to build a better version of myself from it. i’d let my bad intentions rest under his skin until they tainted someone else, and someone else, and someone else. i’m a mechanism of tragedy, of ruin and destruction, and of shaking hands that don’t know how to stop doing this. if you asked me to, though, i think i might try. i don’t know how to, but it’s easy to imagine giving up the narrative of this anti-hero i’ve built myself and focus instead on learning how to be gentle.
vi. you could teach me how to be kind and i would let you.
vii. you could tell me you’re just like me and i’d believe you.
viii. i don’t know if it’s worse if they warned me or worse if they didn’t. but, they knew. they knew you were fire and flames, and would let the whole world burn around you for the thrill of chasing the smoke. i do it because i don’t know how to stop, i’m not sure about you but your laugh and your grin and the bullets clicking together in your fist are more terrifying than my fear of destroying this. you’re going to ruin this, slip my borrowed bad intentions back under my tongue and kiss what little gentleness i was harbouring from my neck.
ix. you’re going to ruin us and i’m going to let you. truth be told, i’ll let it happen. because i love you, and i love your jacket around my shoulders, and because i have spent too many years wanting to be the victim of someone else’s malevolence just so i wouldn’t have to become a victim of my own.
x. pass me back the worst parts of myself i leant you, give me the ghosts of every life you took that was almost mine, slip my body into the cold of your shadow. bad intentions, ill-intent- we only wanted to ruin each other, we weren’t meant to fall in love with this evil, we weren’t meant to want to keep it safe unlike everything we never tried to protect. maybe the real ruin here is all the things we didn’t mean to do.
- ruinology / an analysis of the anti-hero.
1. gavin will be scared when he dies. he’ll be scared and he’ll be grabbing at michael, and michael will be kind enough to tell him it’s okay even though it’s not.
2. he’ll kiss the bullet that ends his life and everyone knows it, like they know all of his friends will outlive him.
3. “it’s okay. gavin, it’s okay” it’s not, but michael’s a hurricane of a man, and you forgive the tornado for all its destruction if it spares you. only you.
4. there’s a man sitting on a beach, with sandy hair and tanned skin, and the water underneath him is stained red. red,
5. gavin’s dreaming again, but he tightens aching, dead fingers in michael’s jacket sleeve and for a moment, for a second, he feels real.
- do not resuscitate.
i’m a little late to it but thank u for a hundred followers!!! ♡.
is this supposed to make sense?
we get older and the dams break, and our parents stop reminding us to look both ways before we cross the street. you say it’s because they disowned us well before we disowned who we used to be; i don’t say anything, but i hope that silence says what i cannot.
crossing the road without my dad always feels like the world is going to end.
crossing the road without my mother always feels like waiting for the worst to happen.
crossing the road with you always feels like knowing that if/when we went missing, there would be no search party. there would be no people wishing we’d return, pick up our guns and torment this city like we earned the right to this destruction. like gods. as if we built this ground you’re walking on so we’re allowed to push it back into the earth.
we are buying out time with our love, trading in kisses and wedding rings we stole from these widows we made. to keep ourselves alive, to keep them out of our way, to sacrifice so we could be here.
would u take it back? would u take it back? would u take it back? [2:14am] - sent from (redacted)
this empty in my chess is like a crater, like an asteroid sent from a god we play pretend with crashed right between my ribs and stole my heart. & this is your best impression of loving me; religion, god, the knees of my jeans worn through from all this praying
confession, a booth, my lips still hot against your neck as i kneel before you:
do u love me? or do u love what we made? [_:__pm] - sent from (redacted)
- the bible or a myth, we are neither and both.
this city dissects us,
and it’s funny but i’m not laughing.
this city pulls us apart and uproots us and says,
you never quite die,
but you are a dying thing.
this road dissects us,
and it’s funny but i don’t get the joke.
the police officer scrutinises us and says,
do you know how fast you were going?
did you ever learn how to stop?
this home dissects us,
and it’s funny but i’ve forgotten how to laugh.
our landlord knocks on our door and says,
i know this isn’t your version of a kingdom,
but you’ll have to pay sometime.
we dissect us,
and it’s not funny so i don’t laugh.
you press your fingers to my chest and say,
will we ever learn?
should we let the fire swallow us?
this dissects us,
and there is no joke here.
it stains our blood to the concrete and says,
they saw the news,
and you can keep pretending,
but this will catch up with you eventually.
this city, this road, this home, us, this:
you can stop trying to prove you’re alive.
- practical joke.
to RAY: i’ll admit that i don’t know where our bodies are supposed to go, or what’s supposed to happen now. you don’t say goodbye- you didn’t- but a few days before you left, you wrapped my hands up in yours and made me promise to build a family from this. i’m not an architect, but i did that, i did what you said. mostly because i thought it’d make you come back. why didn’t you come back?
to JACK: this grief is unseen but it feels like a rural crime scene, my ribs and heart wrapped in neon police tape, your body sitting in a car alone. it wasn’t a car. it was a plane. sometimes i forget the details, but the only one that matters is that you weren’t breathing.
to RYAN: we never could’ve invented anything better than this, you know. we kiss while you’re dying and the audience cheers, throws their popcorn at the screen as i choke on my tears and you choke on your blood. they can’t see through the acting but i can, i can, i can. i was always able to see through you.
to GEOFF: every story begins with love, i dare you to show me one that doesn’t. like all those stories, this started with love, with 102 degrees heat in the middle of a hot los santos summer’s day. it ends with love, too, with your hands grabbing for my body and me a few moments too late to save you. isn’t that how every tragedy begins? ‘we almost made it’ yes, yes, yes. we really almost did. but an almost is only an almost.
to JEREMY: “i could have loved you” PLEASE DO. “i’m sorry, i’m dying” PLEASE DON’T.
to MICHAEL: everything i write for you is another suicide, another bank, another trauma. like my fingers prodding this open wound- this heart, torn apart, severed by lost. you die in flames like you wanted, or at least that’s what i think you wanted. more than that, i think you just wanted to live forever. i think i wanted you to, too.
- and then there was one.
creating this destruction or letting this destruction create us?
you say you don’t remember what it was like before you were always angry, always throwing fists and spitting out your teeth.
i say i don’t quite know who i was before i became this thing, this criminal, this hazard of a boy needing reverence.
we are open wounds,
we are teachers of endurance,
learners of our survivor’s guilt.
we were supposed to die well before we would ever have the chance to live, like god forgot to mark it on his calendar so somehow we’re still here.
somehow we found each other in this mess, but you’re still angry, and i’m still the corpse of a man trying to figure out how to exist.
how are we supposed to live like this?
all tooth and claws, and bloodied and tumbling to the concrete with gunshot wounds we could’ve gave each other,
gave each other.
i never wanted to be pretty or beautiful or wanted,
i didn’t want to conflate my criminal and my boy, didn’t want the two halves of myself to become one and confuse what little identity i had left.
you like it though, don’t you? that it is getting harder and harder to distinguish between the pieces of yourself you’re trying to ignore so hard they’ll disappear.
i’m not trying to get you to love me,
but there’s nothing an audience loves more than a tragedy like this.
than you and me, fingers in each other’s open wounds, talking through our guilt like it’s going to make it any better.
it’s not going to make it any better.
where does it hurt?
show me where it hurts.
i already love you, and i can’t heal you with just that but i can try.
i can try.
- what have we survived?
1. Gavin moves to America when he gets exhausted of England, of the smell of clean and bright and new, and when his blood gets tired of constantly trying to replenish what he loses. He is an enigma, a shadow, a boy wearing cheap sunglasses and holding a gun, and his voice trembles in the dark of an alley, begs whoever is there to reconsider whatever is they’re thinking of doing.
2. He has nothing and everything to be scared of, but he refuses to open his eyes for long enough to realise that. This city will kill him well before he kills it.
3. You’re the dangerous one, someone laughs one-day, spits on the side of the pavement as Gavin watches them bleed. You think you can fool everyone the way you fooled me, Golden Boy? You, Mr Fool’s Gold?
4. The coastline stretches for miles and miles, almost wider than Geoff’s grin the first time he runs into Gavin. Naturally, he sweeps him under his arm and takes him home, and Gavin hasn’t had a family of his own but he refuses to call this that. Jack, Geoff, the others. Gavin looks at the coastline from Geoff’s window, and thinks about his hand on a gun, money in his pocket, his cheap gold sunglasses that earned him a nickname he never asked for.
5. He never asked for any of this, that’s all.
6. Maybe Icarus is too predictable, but he sits over the edge of Geoff’s balcony- sunglasses perched in his hair, this dye in his hair more expensive than anything in his closet- and hopes he doesn’t let this get the best of him. The way it has, already does, definitely will. He’ll let it, he already knows that with all of him, but someday he’ll have to fall, and he tries not to think about that. Him and this city, this empire Geoff helped build, crumbling back into the ground where it belows.
7. He’s the definition of, you’re smart but-
8. Michael says one day, Gavin will kill us all. A misplaced explosion or a grenade he accidentally unpins too early or just at all, or one of these days he’ll shoot one of them or all of them or they’ll ‘get in the way’ of one of his shots. Leave the sniping to Ray, Michael says. You take care of doing nothing, like usual, Gavin. And, Michael says, You really only have that gun? No silencer? Holy shit, Geoff, where’d you pick this kid up from? He’s a fucking moron. Every word drips with, You’re going to get us all killed!
9. Gavin has the sense to hope he kills himself well before he kills any of his crew. Especially Michael. Just so Michael knows he’s wrong about what he says.
10. If this life he’s chosen has taught him anything, it’s that a city is only a city if it’s still standing. Like their crew is only a crew if they’re in it. Like Gavin is only the Golden Boy because he doesn’t know how to exist as anything else. He has only ever known these sunglasses, this faded button-up, the taste of his own blood in his mouth tasting nothing like the iron he expected. His reputation makes him out to be more than he is, makes him wish his body was bigger and his hands were more capable. They called him the Golden Boy as a joke, because it could not be further from the truth. He’s still not sure who heard the name and made it Los Santos gospel.
11. This life has taught him to keep all of things packed in one bag just for the convenience, but it has also taught him that money and dye and clothes cannot be considered a home.
12. This life, and all of its intricacies, has taught Gavin that he is only the Golden Boy because there is nothing else for him to be.
- golden boy noun [ C ] uk /ˈɡəʊl.dən ˌbɔɪ/ us /ˈɡoʊl.dən ˌbɔɪ/
no one ever asks if you’re happy so you won’t say you aren’t. the city has swallowed you whole a billion times, will a billion more, and maybe looking at all those lights it gets easy to pretend. he puts a hand on yours where you’re leaning slightly over the edge, staring at the pavement fifty metres down that looks more like your first grave the longer you stare at it.
you’ve jumped before, to see how it feel to be in the air, if all the gold would drag you down faster. you’ve always been small, always fancied jumping out of a plane without a parachute just because you know you can. you know can you come back, you know where to slice at someone if you want them to bleed out, you know you weren’t meant to live this long.
people tell you their secrets like they know you won’t tell anyone because you’ve been so quiet about your own tragedy, surely you’ll keep theirs quiet too, surely you’ll hold that tongue of yours like you’ve been taught to. you are more sacrificial lamb than man, more ghost than human; in the sense that somewhere out there is a billion versions of you lying dead.
the police department releases a report of the casualties from your last heist so you stare at the list of names until your eyes burn from not blinking. you stare until night becomes morning, your fingers feel guilty for all they’ve done up until now. you wonder how many of those hundred people you killed, how many you didn’t. if any of them came back.
- you can burn your fingerprints off, you’ll still be you.
I don’t know how to make this story interesting,
so instead imagine we’re both alive and the sun is warm on our skin and our bulletproof vests do what they’re supposed to.
Replace my lips with yours, and forget for a few minutes to give them back because my hands are soft and warm on your biceps, we’re driving fast through the city, you love me.
I don’t know if that last one is true,
but at night it’s easy to pretend that your body wrapped around me means you want this too, want me too, and I bathe in those moments every time you nearly die.
Tighten my hands over your shoulders, hold my head up high like the thought of losing you doesn’t twist my insides, doesn’t feel as though someone’s taken my stomach from my gut and replaced it with something heavy like rocks.
I don’t know if that’s medically possible, I’m not a doctor, I never went to university, anyway,
I take my grief to a bar and it buys me a drink, slings an arm around my shoulder, tells me there’s something beautifully poetic about tragedy like this. Something pretty about the way the dim lights sparkle off my tears, how the vodka sliding down my throat is enough to take my body and make it something more.
I don’t know if I ever told you I don’t believe in heaven,
and you’re dead so you can’t hear me right now but even if I did believe in it, I don’t think you’re there. Somewhere deeper, somewhere darker, somewhere more dangerous, that’s where you are. Someplace where you don’t think of me, don’t remember the bruises under your vest, my laugh in your ear before the bullet split through your heart, and maybe that’s for the best.
And, I don’t know if I ever got to tell you I love you,
even once. But wherever you are,
I hope you miss me, too,
- guilt: these cracked ribs, grief: a funeral.
boy with the arsonist heart,
with your teeth holding smoke,
your fingers holding matches.
( this is gavin. i’m sorry i keep calling but the nights are cold without you next to me, and i’m worried about you more than i want to admit. michael, i-
boy with the anger issues,
with your hair red like your nature
your eyes dangerous.
( it’s gavin. again! you know, geoff used to tell me i was too rough, too young with soft hands that held too tight. is it too late to ask you to forgive me for tha-
boy with the survivor’s guilt,
with your jacket that’s not yours,
and your body a reminder.
( michael, i’ll make this quick. it’s gavin, you know it’s me, i’m guessing. i’ve been sleepwalking, that’s what i’ve been trying to say. i always wake up where-
( machine cut me off! michael, i thought i should tell you i keep waking up where we met. that little corner near that gas station, sometimes it feels so familiar-
( sometimes it feels so familiar i forget it’s not home. you used to be home, you know. i’m sorry i wasn’t gentler with you, i’m sorry i can’t even apologise right.
( michael, i love you. isn’t that enough? )
– he’s set too many fires to now start thinking about the casualties.
the city coastline stretches so far it would take all our lifetimes
for us to walk the distance it spans
and the full moon lasts for weeks so by the time we drive there
to try and walk it, the tide is on the road, the coastline swallows
houses and devours anyone foolish enough to get in its way.
and maybe this is what you wanted to hear when you asked if i
would really walk the whole coastline even if i died three
hundred times over, always trying not to love you.
i walk the coastline and it takes me two years, three months.
i don’t know much about immortality but i am like a cat,
eyes shining in the dark and always landing on my feet
even when it hurts.
i walk the coastline,
and it takes me until all of my lives have run out, and maybe
the kicker isn’t that i’m going to die but that it took me dying a
thousand times to realise that
i love you.
— ephemera: the class, me: the teacher.
“why didn’t you tell him you loved him?”
your hand warm and sweaty in his, your heart pounding loud in your ears, your breathing doesn’t steady until he’s next to you.
his mouth is close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, his hair is a mess, his finger is too eager on the trigger of his gun.
the world falls apart around you, the world tries to kill you, the world fails, the whole world stops and watches you, the whole world stops and watches him.
you don’t tell him you love him because he looks at you and he knows, he doesn’t ask if you love him because he looks at you and he knows.
would you still tell him?
– if there are simpler ways to tell someone you love them, i don’t know of them.
stick a knife between my ribs and tell me how i’m going to die.
say it’s gonna be slow, it’s not gonna be painless, and my blood will boil on the pavement in the summer heat. say no one will care enough to clean it up or get rid of the body before nature takes it back, because i’ve killed everyone i ever loved and now there’s no one left.
stick a knife between my ribs and tell me you love me. this love is tempestuous, this love sleeps under my bed every night like that monster who lived in my house when i was a kid, this love is going to kill me. he told me that with a bullet in his heart, and i told him i knew with his blood on my hands while you hovered in the background.
stick a knife between my ribs. twist it around while my fingers are tightening my grip in your shirt, and pretend you never wanted to be the last one left. i know better, i’ve always known better.
stick that knife between my ribs and tell me you’re sorry. like that makes up for everything. you’ve always been a better man than i, you don’t need to tell me that. but i told you when we first met that i was scared of dying like this, so how long have you been waiting to kill me?
- tell me you love me, drag my heart through the rough
it’s not that gavin’s scared of the dark, but, let’s say:
the one time he tried to navigate his apartment in the dark, his heart was beating so loud he could hear it, like,
it was the only thing for miles,
no cars or sirens, or his cat meowing in the dark of the kitchen because he’d forgotten to fill up the food bowl before he’d fallen asleep.
who’s nearly thirty and scared of the dark? he’s killed enough people, scrubbed enough blood from his hands and clothes, to only ever be afraid of himself.
has the monster ever caught its own reflection and been scared because it forgets it’s the monster?
in the dark, in his blackened bathroom mirror; a monster, all gnashing teeth and claws, not programmed to feel guilt, stares back.
it’s not quite as afraid of the dark as gavin.
- what’s worse? the dark or the monster?
1. pack those things of yours in the dead of night
( the room is dark, you can pretend you accidentally stole that shirt of his instead of facing the truth )
( take his favourite shirt, wear it on the train like it doesn’t burn your skin )
2. don’t look back at him when you leave him
( the sight of him sleeping might make you want to stay more than you already do )
( if you stare too long, he might wake up )
3. promises don’t mean anything
( you say “god, I love you, why would I ever leave you” but it doesn’t mean anything if you cross your fingers behind your back )
( he says it back with hesitancy in his teeth like if you don’t leave first, he will )
4. close his front door behind you like you can do it again
( if you remember it’s the last, your hand will get stuck on the doorknob like it’s glued there )
( if you tell yourself it’s the first, you’ll keep thinking about the second )
5. don’t tell him you love him
( but make sure he knows )
( but make sure you know that leaving the boy you love is going to break your heart ).
– * life has taught you a handful of things (like how to pack your heart into your suitcase).
you weren’t raised a catholic boy but the words hold weight in your mouth every time you see him; like you’d get on your knees for him if he asked, or dye your brown hair blonde if he said it looked better that way, or sit in church and hold your tongue if he was sat beside you.
you weren’t raised a catholic boy but something about his love doesn’t feel right, and not because it’s a him, but because it’s him. dark hair, wide, stretched smile, his voice in your ear, his hands on your skin like nothing else you’ve ever felt before.
god, you weren’t raised a catholic boy but he kisses you and gets close, and something about his skin on yours feels like a miracle. like, this shouldn’t be happening but he’s warm and close, and you’ve never been the type to deny yourself this simple pleasure.
repeat his words like litany, dig them into your skin with your fingernails, sing them like hymnals. do all that for him, not because he asked, but because he’s staring at you and you love him. not for it, but it’s a pretty good reason. you love him because he saves your life too many times to count, and his body feels right with yours, and he laughs and your stomach feels hollow.
you weren’t raised a catholic boy but you know an angel when you see it, and he isn’t one. you weren’t raised a catholic boy but you know something dangerous and impossible when you see it, and he is both those things. think about him laughing last time you got hurt, and him throwing that grenade into a building he knew you were still in, and love him anyway.
you weren’t raised a catholic boy, but this feels like a sin.
– you’ve known him for five minutes, but he still feels more familiar than god.
tell that thief you met last week that you think other than stealing your wallet,
you think maybe he took something else too.
list those things like you do with groceries, and
cross them out when you find them.
your phone, your house keys, the ring you wear on your right hand, your car keys, the cash in your back pocket, your handgun tucked into your waistband
good, good, good.
list the things you can’t find like litany,
fold your arms over your chest and think about dying, and dying some more, and the heart not beating in your chest.
tell that thief you met last week that you think other than
stealing your wallet,
you think maybe he took something else too.
block your own ears, listen for the way your heart doesn’t thump thump thump.
tell that thief you met last week that he can keep your wallet,
but not your heart.
- thieves are not known for returning what they take (what makes you think this is an exception)