one.
messy sheets scattered against the wood floor of his small apartment, accompanied by pages of paper, photos, anything within arms reach. his back was up against the wall enclosing the room together, hands meshing together in his faded green locks. he didn’t know what was going to happen, nor did he know why he broke himself all of a sudden.
perhaps it was the particular date. a familiar one that struck a chord nevertheless. it was the fourteenth day, second month. supposed to be full of love, romantic and platonic, and celebrated with somewhat of a happy face. you see suitors, sweeping their lovers off their feet with noticeably expensive pieces of chocolate, a bouquet of roses that were sold out at the nearest florist and maybe even a giant plush bear. all about materials. but it could be laced with love. not like he knew what that was, regardless.
it wasn’t a bad romance, nor was it a bitter one-night-with-too-many-drinks type hatred. it was more of his own feelings getting the better of himself. he remembered how masochistic he used to be towards his own psyche. nights full of drunken slurs, bloody palms and an incoherent messy boy standing at the edge of a rooftop, not brave enough to let himself fall free—even if he was craving it.
everything about february fourteenth just took over his thoughts, legs folding up towards his chest as he exhales a string of smoke into the open air. he never used to smoke. or drink. or do anything that required damage to the body and its organs. but he’s here, finishing up a pack of marlboro in one sitting. he was never stressed enough to grab his own pack before, but years from this date was when he started to pick up this bad habit.
her hair was longer than it used to be. she kept it tied in a half-pony tail, dyed amber locks falling against her shoulders. her skin, still porcelain, still radiant. the way her lips curled up naturally, even if the tone of the topic didn’t fit her interests. rosy cheeks would press her eyes into little crescents as she smiled—a grin that couldn’t be forgotten. it was mischievous, cunning. everything about her made him giddy with excitement.
but her looks and the way she spoke weren’t things that coincided with each other. innocent eyes, but her tongue was like a dagger. she spoke freely, without caring about hurting feelings of those involved. egotistical, abrasive, abusive. she smiled while she said it too. as if it’ll ease the pain of her intentions.
he grunted after finishing the cigarette, tossing the bud aside. calloused fingertips fell against the small frame near his leg, the silver metal glistening in the dim-lit room. looking at how happy he was at one point, when he made friends and lived as a normal person with no hard feelings and nothing to worry about. simple times, if you must.
those same fingers fell against her familiar face, dancing against the image of her silhouette. and he chuckled too, surprisingly. laughing away the disgust that left his lips. the small frame was now cracked and disheveled on the ground, shards of glass flying around the broken bedroom. his throat was dry now, tongue darting out to coax whatever salvia’s left to his lips, exposed knees from his distressed jeans crunching against the scattered pieces. his hands were laced with beads of red, staining the wood beneath him as he crawled to find the lone picture.
loose tears burnt against his skin, his hand shooting up to wipe them away. this was the only thing he had left of her. this was the last piece of happiness.
she was his poison. she was his passion. she was his mother.
and he never saw her again.
