DEIMOS
It didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to. He could feel the weight of everything crashing down over him, smothering, suffocating, and he was going to drown right there, on the damned couch, with nothing and no one at all left. His breath clogged through his lungs and he choked back something, couldn’t tell, didn’t know, as he began to slowly coil, contort, and ravel back into all those frayed strands he’d fought so hard to keep tethered. “I do not understand.” Murmured, rasped, grated, because he didn’t, he didn’t know what was going on. “How…how have I prevented you from being who you are?”
The final words were enough anyway. They told him all he needed to know. All he needed to comprehend.
He’d been here before, but not in so many words. When he’d tried to love, and when it hadn’t been enough to keep anyone there, or alive, or simply around him. When he froze and cooled and became walls upon walls, when he bit into savage torrents, when his existence couldn’t materialize into anything anyone needed, or wanted. When he was a machine, and he tore into the world because that was all he had left.
He could feel the earth moving beneath him, desperately trying to consume and devour, wreck him, pull him asunder to where he’d always belonged. A pattern, a cycle, where he merely tried and lost, tried and lost, tried and lost. And he couldn’t stay there another moment, with the world pulling at him, rising from the couch, peeling away, away, away, where he had nothing and no one left.
The Sword made it as far as the stairs, before crumbling, before sitting against the wall and curling, taut, rigid, unyielding into shadows and nothingness, put here again because he’d dared to try to cherish, and it still wasn’t enough. “Then go,” a whisper, clinging to his knees. “Just like everyone else.”
The final words were enough anyway. They told him all he needed to know. All he needed to comprehend.
He’d been here before, but not in so many words. When he’d tried to love, and when it hadn’t been enough to keep anyone there, or alive, or simply around him. When he froze and cooled and became walls upon walls, when he bit into savage torrents, when his existence couldn’t materialize into anything anyone needed, or wanted. When he was a machine, and he tore into the world because that was all he had left.
He could feel the earth moving beneath him, desperately trying to consume and devour, wreck him, pull him asunder to where he’d always belonged. A pattern, a cycle, where he merely tried and lost, tried and lost, tried and lost. And he couldn’t stay there another moment, with the world pulling at him, rising from the couch, peeling away, away, away, where he had nothing and no one left.
The Sword made it as far as the stairs, before crumbling, before sitting against the wall and curling, taut, rigid, unyielding into shadows and nothingness, put here again because he’d dared to try to cherish, and it still wasn’t enough. “Then go,” a whisper, clinging to his knees. “Just like everyone else.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
