* 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔

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* / »   full name.  angel beaumont. * / »   nicknames. angel, beau. * / »   age.  twenty two. * / »   sexual orientation.  homosexual. * / »   birthday.  15th march. * / »   star sign.  pisces.

psyche.

* / » compared to.  romeo montague, theodore decker, holden caulfield, eddie kaspbrak, neville longbottom . * / » hair.  brunette. * / » eyes. hazel hues. * / » height. 5′8. * / » distinguishing features. honey pooled hues, strawberry flavoured chapstick, occasional rimless lenses, dimpled smile upturned, bitter replies, asthma pumped arguments, cheeks flushed pink with intoxication.  * / » aesthetics.  hymns that fill empty chapels, graveyard buried caked & dry, unshed tears, picked wounds bleeding unspoken words, swollen lips from open mouthed kisses, bitterness burning with a quick witted arguments,  open casket funerals, honey pooled, knees bloodied, a sickness that churns, a tremor that haunts.

history.

tw : death tw, death of a sibling tw, obsessive parenting tw. 

01. you’re birthed from fear. bloodied mouthed prised open, you recite hymns in sun soaked churches. knees bruised, crosses heavy. you’re scared before you can remember. it becomes a gnawing that grows in a pit in your stomach. it tastes bitter, - wined. your mother calls it the devil. one that sits in the corner of your room, drapes clothes, - sings sweet melodies with pressed kisses. those desires that crawl at the nape of your neck, sticky sweet & cursed. you swallow it whole & visit church each sunday.

02. your brother visits you in clinical painted walls ; pierced shaped lungs have failed you before you are grown and you are bedbound by your mother’s pinched nails. it becomes a game between the two of you ; a moonlight soaked room, whispers in the dark. he speaks of a world outside of irving, you cannot fathom the taste of something other than your room, - it feels heavy, bitter. he leaves before you turn sixteen, he does not return.

03. you dream of your brother for the first time in years. you’re eighteen, and he has written letters that are tucked underneath your bed. your mother speaks in tongues, a bitterness that crawls in the space between you. you don’t speak of him, just like you don’t speak of dad. instead she makes sure that you are confined to her rules, unable to be let out of your sight. it’s funny, almost, - that if you were a princess, - your life resembles rapunzel.

04. he comes home in a body bag and is buried when you turn twenty, and you’re hollowed out. you don’t know where to place this anger. the emptiness that holds open casket funerals ;  grief soaked jumpers, dirt heeled & funeral processions. you want to cry, most nights, hold his memories in that fleeting nostalgia. when he would tousle your hair, or pluck stray threads from mother’s home stitched sweaters. 

05. your heart is mangled in your throat, a bloodied beating that floods your ears. & you cannot pinpoint when your love for your mother has turned to hatred, but it sits in the corner of your room,  - a ghost at the dinner table. shallow breath & shaky hands. you were never strong enough to leave. you weren’t like your brother, or your father.

extras.