fever dream (let me out).

A body on the pavement. Everything he could have been is outlined in chalk, multicolors for the multidimensional failure; the brightest he's ever looked is glorified in the loss of control over bowel movements and the emptying of blood from his facial pigmentation. Tears fall down the face of a woman that waited too long to be a mother, and another who took too long to set him loose when she fell out of love. Being constrained by the hopes of what other people had for him was the focal point of his life, providing a place to pinpoint his troubles when he lost sight of a language that had always failed him - his own opinion. The air was crisp and leaves were every color that he'd hated the most, and it seemed almost fitting to the few that had taken the time to know him that he died after listening to a symphony of his own regrets; beating himself up in the open street until a car could come along and help. It seemed fitting, of course, that he'd hate everything about the people and weather surrounding his death.

Despite the autumn state of mind, not a single leaf fell for him. There were no beautiful sounds from birds in mourning, nor baskets of materialistic condolences on his family's front porch in the coming week. Life went on as usual, and people moved on as expected. His name was soon nothing more than a whisper in the wind, straying across the cheeks of almost loved ones when he wanted to check on them. As always, he was still easier brushed aside than dealt with or acknowledged. A body on the pavement.

sick of writing letters to a boy who burnt his mailbox.

Tracing the bottom of an empty glass with her finger, she wondered where along the line she lost her taste for schnapps and acquired a craving for Pomegranate Lemonade. It couldn't have been the overwhelming sweetness or the fact that her teeth literally ached after downing a glass, but perhaps the fact that twitching from the taste allowed her some kind of escape from feeling numb and looking lost. Tilting her head to look at her reflection in the countertop, she wondered where she lost her knack for conversation and mastered the art of analyzing her thoughts in the form of self-conversing. It was the worst possible dialogue, when the audience was an empty bar stool.

furrowing my brow, i trace my fingertips along the banister of a stairwell that should have long since rotted due to the lack of proper care. i have to talk myself out of comparing it to my heart and shake the weary thoughts of what's so different? as i take my seat at the bottom step. i pretend that i'm waiting for someone. when it no longer seems fun, i pretend that someone is waiting for me. my elbows lean on my knees and i tuck my chin in to my palm, noting that i pretend an awful lot of things and wondering which are realistic and which are fantasies i am not suited to experience. and i wonder who is, and what makes them so. the story of my life is merely a reel in my mind that i will never live out, and wouldn't know how to handle if i could.