hunter, alcoholic, brother, soldier ;
you were raised with the song of bullet casings hitting the floor and grew into the sound of shot glasses hitting the table. childhood: learning how to hold the pencil right –– - how to hold the needle right. following the dots of the cursive letters only prepared you for following the curves while binding together the cuts on your body. morning conditionings, filled with the low hanging fog that stuck to your skin, morning dew sparkling and lighting the way as you sprint for a mile.
you only have a minute left
only a minute. time to grab water, steel your nerves, and keep yourself from never coming back. only a minute before you start running again ( feet slamming against the pavement, vaulting across the forest floor, flowing over open fields … a regular fucking globe trotter ) just to see how much f u r t h e r you could go.
and you’ll never stop running.
there was no minute break in your life. not when you died and endured for thirty years, getting that saccharine taste of r e v e n g e for ten –– - a chance to lash out for everything the world has denied you. there was no break when you proved the heavenly host wrong for thinking you’d be their puppet, only learning that even in the future you’re not the man you wanted to be.
titsay
izzy806
discoholicmusic
janainaart
