// but i'm not good with directions and i hide behind my mouth
i'm a pro at imperfections and i'm best friends with my doubt //
i'm a pro at imperfections and i'm best friends with my doubt //
He wants to be able to say that his being dragged is a conscious protest, a deliberate attempt to make things difficult, and maybe, when he’s finally able to talk about this day years down the line, that is what he’ll say.
The truth, that will be utterly obvious to everyone who can see him, is that he’s too broken apart to do much more than flinch away from the eyes that have come to watch this spectacle, and try weakly to wrench himself free of the hands on him.
There’s almost too much to take in, and it’s only a small mercy that he no longer bleeds red, that he isn’t stained with it. Between the beating of the waves, the blazing rays of the sun, and the utter lack of fluid, he’s diminished, no smaller, but curled in on himself as if it will protect him from anything. His mouth works behind the gag, though it’s impossible to tell what he’s doing behind it. There are shiny marks, burns, along his shoulders, his chest, where the sun has beat down, and patches of what would be bruises on anyone else along every other visible part of him. A sluggish trickle of fluid moves down along his hands, where marks around his wrists still haven’t quite managed to close.
He’s still, weak, right up until he sees Sunjata, an explosion of desperate movement rushing through him as he tries to do something. It’s short lived, only the burning in his gaze remaining when he falls limp again, almost delirious.
The truth, that will be utterly obvious to everyone who can see him, is that he’s too broken apart to do much more than flinch away from the eyes that have come to watch this spectacle, and try weakly to wrench himself free of the hands on him.
There’s almost too much to take in, and it’s only a small mercy that he no longer bleeds red, that he isn’t stained with it. Between the beating of the waves, the blazing rays of the sun, and the utter lack of fluid, he’s diminished, no smaller, but curled in on himself as if it will protect him from anything. His mouth works behind the gag, though it’s impossible to tell what he’s doing behind it. There are shiny marks, burns, along his shoulders, his chest, where the sun has beat down, and patches of what would be bruises on anyone else along every other visible part of him. A sluggish trickle of fluid moves down along his hands, where marks around his wrists still haven’t quite managed to close.
He’s still, weak, right up until he sees Sunjata, an explosion of desperate movement rushing through him as he tries to do something. It’s short lived, only the burning in his gaze remaining when he falls limp again, almost delirious.
and now that my mind's out, and now i hear it clear and loud
NATE
