tender sugar

The juncture of the day sometimes infuses uninvited thoughts, knocking on his mind gates and lingering for a long time. It is dusk and he is thinking about his body; about how he measures every inch of peculiarities and embosses it into question marks. He understands it in two ways: a. metaphorically, he is a riverbed with soft water and gentle streams, his estuary the color of oceanic scene that he imbibes in the cradle of hushed moments – and b. progressively, as a scientific deviation that combines research undone with every accidental experiment, uncovered by the bound of textbook theories.

Maybe this is an entropy. Maybe this is a stagnancy.

He finds everything almost rhetorical, problems inquired when there is absolutely no solution. Discoveries were strokes of luck, if not slivers of curse. Life is a heist performed on evolution’s shelves; robberies a legal synergy that he learned to do in the art of survival. This is either an apex of genetic lottery, or an abyss ( lately the former more than the latter – last year spoke of it backward ). He is an expert of symbiosis with private bewilderment.

                       Take an instance. Dissect into dichotomy.

                                   Today’s topic: bulletproof skin and empiric bones,            pomegranate blood that cascades in the rigidity of constant flows,                        and chest wrapped in gravitation towards the kin strapped as minority.

Anomaly dilutes every divergence. Substances only wash his mouth and scorch his throat. Wounds only prove transience and knit syllogisms. Every sinew bruises his psyche with the knowledge that he barely recognizes the mechanism of his own systems, organs a reminder that he is a husk of ellipsis left blank forever.

Then comes this point where he is oversaturated with the crown of cacophonies.

He gets on his feet in attempt to clear the haze. Grabs his hooded jacket, his primer protection. Outside is a painting of metamorphosis, sky suffering from too much purple from the intrusion of evening. The wind is sandpaper with tints of season ending, faded shades replaced with coagulated hues of spring. He is aimless. Map is optional when he wants to be swallowed whole by the ferocity contained in the city’s ribcage.

Sidewalks transitioned from luminescent to fluorescent, his shadows more defined with each turn.

                       He finds himself in the jugular of the city and reminds himself of a tale,                                                long lost in skepticism and layering.

Rumors travel and decay; but he remembers this one by the inevitable pull that gnaws on his senses. Distorted vessels, atrocities embodied. He follows his instinct. Destination known.

           The crowd punctures in euphoric roar. They call it The Ring; bloodspill abound.

the dark figure rises before the morning, renewing his bandages and tending to every scar on his limbs. oddly enough, he grew fond of these bruises, each wound nursed with the greatest of care. and to say he was a masochist? quite the under statement. this was no longer a chore, but a hobby. however, over the years of his absence, he never once stopped to understand: the ring had truly changed him. but who’s to say that this was a bad thing? what deems this development to be a burden? it was his means of comfort. proof that he was still valued, even if the circumstances were different. even if he were no longer needed.

and so here he was the next week, back for another round, another fix of that same adrenaline. it was a traditional caged fight between him and a menacing cloaked figure. initially, it wasn’t given a proper introduction, but this round was all the same to the looming man of shadow. fight to win.

“and in this corner, we have the amorphous shadow, the man of darkness! misterrrr hat trick!” as the audience erupts, the two figures meet at the mid point. although minho couldn’t quite decipher his opponent’s face, he extended his hand forward for the sake of ‘good sportsmanship’. ..he was dismissively ignored soon after. it was safe to say that no one knew what to make of this anonymous stranger. nonetheless, they got into their positions, waited for their signal and instantly shot forward.

“and it’s minho who goes for the offense, casting his shadows left and right! but it seems that our mysterious ghost is playing it safe on the defense, swiping the field with the ol’ bob and weave!.” despite his rough exterior, his moves remain precise and fluent. lunging his arms forward to weave the shadows, manipulating them at will. this swarm of dark ink sweeps the stage in the form of tendrils ready to pierce the figure through its cloak. but in a sudden turn of events, the cloaked opponent darts forward, evading every attack. fuming purely out of irritation, he reaches for the cloak without a moments notice, but to his surprise...

“well steal my paycheck and take my wife! it’s a shape shifter taken in the form of our very own choi minho! you’ve seen it here and now folks. the mysterious opponent is in fact a shape shifting, shadow dodging machine! but how will minho counter?” he doesn’t. he’s petrified. it was like staring into the eyes of a ghost. this fiend had assumed the form of his past and shoved it right back in his face. clean suit, prominent neck stitches, and a wicked grin that signified that this match was end game for minho. 

he couldn’t stand a chance. given no time to recover, the shape shifter mirrors the shape of a blotched scythe through its arms, swinging forward, and wiping minho clean off the grounds. the match was over, and for the very first time in a long time, he lost.

by the time he gains consciousness, the lowly grunt gives an exceedingly irritated groan between gritted teeth, shoving his way out of the arena. he couldn’t believe this. he was thrown off and lost completely. and because of some lowly impersonator, he lost his value, is what he thinks. paying no regards to audience around him, he pushes past those who stood in his path but unwittingly shoves himself against an unsuspecting spectator. 

this couldn’t possibly another morning after a heavy, crash influencing, daredevil inducing night. his butt hurts so he’s freaking out over the fact that it’s a guy with him in bed this time. he’s got to stop being depressed if this is gonna be the result each time. it’s a good friend too so while he waits for him to wake up, he sits and ponders, checking every pocket or anything possible spot in the room to remind him of what had transpired. he’s hoping there’s no drugs involved in any of this but besides his butt, his nose hurts too. everything aches, pretty much. for a moment, he thinks of his nurse friend and feels guilty for such irresponsible actions.

“..what. what?” what was he? gay? did he just ask if he was.. a butt stuffer? how to answer.. given the context of the situation, they both were, in fact, stark naked, in bed. his bed? no, hyuntae’s. the room was a mess and his muscles were sore. the only remnants that remained from last night were hazed with what he believed to be screaming, hysterically laughing, and a truck. but last he checked, none of them owned a truck. “..n...no, no definitely n- holy fuck.” 

in a hesitant moment, his words were cut short at the sight of thin black ink etched into the others body. “wait, is that- is that a tattoo? hyuntae where’ve you,” but to his own surprise, the disheveled man glances down at his own form and rips out an incredulous holler. “HOLY SHIT-,” a series of curses and ‘oh god’ soon follows after the moment  he discovered fresh bruises and tattoos over his torso. however, in the midst of his new-found, he stops, gives hyuntae a grave look, finger pointed as if the matter of life and death depended on it.