My head aches. And I’m cold. Why does it have to be me?
Why should it be anyone?
Because I don’t deserve this.
And someone else does?
A rapist might, or a murderer.
Ah, so now you are the one to judge?
Or you, you’re judging me for judging them. You’re not even fucking real you know.
I’m so cold, my stomach hurts, I don’t want to breathe anymore.
Sure you do! You’re just whining because you can feel pain. But really, its absence means your death at this point.
You were supposed to comfort me.
Like everyone else? Like their prognosis of you?
You could convince me.
Hmph, I could lie to you like everyone else? I could cover my words in molasses and muffle your ears to the truth? Not damn likely.
I just want to live.
Well, isn’t that precious?
I could have—I could have lived…
Hah, you could have wasted yourself like always, you mean. You could have plodded along like nothing ever mattered and kept at it for years, going along for no reason other than everyone thought that you ought to.
My skin’s not even warm anymore. I feel like a corpse.
I’ve seen better looking.
Am I supposed to care that you’re lying right now?
Well, earlier you wanted me to tell you things. Why not now?
I lied. I want you to tell me the truth.
I don’t have much left of my share of forever.
Humans were never much good with forever anyway. They only kept promises that were important to them.
What do words mean anymore?
Words mean that you’re more than a puddle of piss on the floor. Not that you mean more than the puddle, mind.
Thank you for staying with me through this.
Maybe I’m here to keep the plastic tubes and metal wires company.
Hm, well they’re not much for talking. I’ve been listening. They only whisper one thing.
Ooh, a metaphor. Poetry facing the back of life and backing the face of death. Do elaborate.
They whisper to me.
So you’ve said. You’ve not much longer to explain…
‘One more breath.’
You were right.
I was? What an intriguing notion. You wished for a liar.
The liar I wished for, I became.
One thing I am curious about.
What is your point?
The silence hurts my ears— but— I don’t think I can stand the whispering anymore.
Are you ready at last?
Hardly. But I don’t belong anymore. They will whisper to me for my own bit of eternity if I let them.
Have you stopped then?
Listening, listening, you always listen. I’ve never understood it frankly.
Oh, you’ve asked so nicely. How could I deny you?
Will you agree?
Gather your nerve, your courage, your bravado, your moxy. And then I will.
So old fashioned…Please stop the whispering and let me be.
You know I can’t. Why ask now?
I will never be warm again. I will never stand without pain. I will never— be free.
You never were free; you were always caged, for every moment of your eternity.
You’ve waited for me, and I’ve never thanked you all this time…
Pfft, waiting, waiting. It’s all I’ve done. You were better than most though.
I’ve been clinging to it all.
Oh, most certainly. Only to hear the truth, only to know it. No selfishness to you at all. Quite shocking in these times.
Yes, how curious indeed. In all senses.
And now, the inevitable.
We leave, don’t we?
Mhm. That we do. To tell the truth, you’ll like it better.
Stirring, something is moving. I can feel myself being drawn closer, and in that moment I know. At the door, brushing along the door—faintly, the air is moving. I know it is time again, if such a word can be used to describe this life. There is no light— except— him. He is the only light. Smelling of dead fire and perfumed ashes, he has arrived once more. Dimly, he appears. An orange spark illuminates his figure. A cloud of coiling smoke winds around his face, obscuring him as it caresses his flesh. He is too bright; I shy away, following the edges of the walls I cannot see, unable to stray too far from the center of the room. In the center— the mirror. I peer into the glass he so easily ignores.
Beauty, shine for me. Beauty, reveal yourself; revel in the light…
You left. You always leave—why should I?
I always return.
And slowly you’ll pull away, drift away, again and again, until you’re no longer with me— Why must I bear this?
You were born to be mine.
I want to see the water.
Briefly; too briefly. Even without you I have control.
I am the reason. So please— come to me.
And so it continues. I dance around the edge of sight, staying within an arm’s length of the mirror. As he exhales, he is blind to me, surrounded by seductive coils, all whispering to him, all dancing along his frame. In these moments, I drift carefully to the mirror, peering into its depths. I whisper desperately against the glass, knowing my actions are useless. In a moment of distraction, he reaches forward, wrapping his arms around mine. I struggle against him, his skin burning into mine. He leans closer, lips pressing to mine.
At last. At last I can—
Another will be born. Another—
Sinking into his embrace, I close my eyes. He is blinding, his brilliance a burden.
His hands brush against my closed eyelids. He sighs, briefly lingering. Our time together is almost spent; there is no place for gentleness. He regretfully pushes himself against me, overwhelmingly present. His passion is reckless, as it has always been. I can hardly bear the departure that must occur. I lose myself to him, never daring to open my eyes. The smoke is sinuously around us both, the ashes smear our skin. The sparks burn, the heat is inescapable. I don’t care; there is no place for shame, no time for regrets, no desires can be fulfilled— save the one.
It makes me livid. I can’t imagine why this woman, obviously not the target audience for YA books, thinks she can presume what is to the taste of YA readers. To compound the problem, she falls under the logical fallacy that by reading racier and edgier material (such as books featuring drug use, cutting, and rape) readers will normalize such behaviors and be more likely to do these things themselves. Her perspective continues to portray that she clearly feels teenagers should be sheltered from the very real problems of the world and that more innocent books should be published. And to that I say that many books fitting her standard (minimal cursing and the equivalent of a PG movie rating) have been published. I would also point out that parents should be no more than a guide in their teenager’s reading choice (honestly, they’re not five anymore). Poorly done madam, and I am appalled that you were ever featured in the online Wall Street Journal.
I want to act like a little kid, be a childish little bitch. All week I’ve worked my ass off and run errands on my days off. And I’ve been sleeping for most of today because I’m so exhausted. And then I wake up to my phone ringing (my third interruption during an hour nap) and answer politely to find that they need me to work a shift later today after all. Gah. So that was me complaining, sorry about that.
According to the three theories of dreams, I’m taking neural hiccups and making them have meaning, I’m recycling memories from the day, or…my unconscious mind is trying to tell me something. I don’t think I’m trying to impose meaning on my dreams. But honestly…when someone in your dream says “This is all you ever wanted.” as they guide you and a few other people down different hallways, I feel inclined to derive symbolic meaning from the dream.
That moment when you realize how many people you're leaving behind.
Even though I haven’t been the friendliest or nicest person, everyone seems sad that I’m leaving. And fuck, I know it isn’t going to be a sad ending, I know I’m going to be happier where I’m going but…
Since some people are so concerned about followers, I have a hint for you.
Stop reblogging racist shit and leaving it on my dash. I don’t find it funny. And I get that I can be offended all I want and I get that you still have the right to reblog it. Bigotry on my dash=automatic unfollow. No exceptions. Sorry, I’m just intolerant like that.