#brjinri

you are – stuck in time, hair falling across your eyes in an unstylish manner, way-too-long stares, silence beyond belief. fumbling with books, fiddling with wrinkled paper notes that you keep in your pocket. alive, because she wants to, your eternity in the hands of the other half of you.

( if she is wicked, are you made of the same matter or a contraposition? )

you try not to think about it.

you are – sitting across from her, with a steaming cup of tea in between you two and your handwriting contrasting against your pale skin, scribbled, scribbled scribbled. she is not looking at you, her eyes drift away from the conversation that was poorly held, scanning the grounds of the school, looking for something.

that something could never be you.

( you never stop clinging to those who would never choose you, you were born this way – quite literally. )

why can’t you?

why can’t you?

wind rustles outside, meaner than it was once before, making windowpanes moan under its sudden drop of pressure. it rips leaves from trees, it makes the surface of the nearby lake ripple violently – it twists and turns and makes birds fly in a desperate motion and the dogs cry out until your mind commands them to stop.

but they cry louder, because you can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

( she had fed you untarnished neglect until it dripped down your chin and tainted all of you – and that raw power, the one you were unworthy of, the one that corroded your system, sits there, unsure of its extension, just like yourself, whole. )

she is – wickedness.

she is – void.

but she is – warmth, prospect, comfort, broken pieces that made into art herself, your fear of disappointing, yet again, coming to life whenever she’s around.

which one makes you heart pace quicken?

( all of them.

but she does it best. )

you are – suddenly standing, facing the window in which her eyes were before glued on. heels of your palms pressed against your eyes until you see fireworks exploding behind the darkness of your closed eyelids. the wind howls outside, birds – which then stopped trying to flee, decided to sing instead.

you wonder – why, why, why. you try to count to seven, a holy number. you try to remember the words scribbled on your hands, dendrobatidae, phyllobates, urodela, hwang jinri, does she like rain?

( black ink is probably smeared all over your face, she is probably gone. )

and you feel – her heartbeat against the middle of your back, breath held, arms strongly wrapped around you. you feel. your mind, twirls once again – and hushes.

birds flee, the anger of the winds dies out.

a perfect summer night.

she stays – for a few minutes more. this time, she inhales deeply, letting go of the air inside her lungs in a excruciatingly slow manner. her hands are still sprawled across your chest, right over your heart.

( is this a threat, or a reassurance? )

and she does that same ritual – breathes in, breathes out. your hands come down to rest on top of hers, the knots on your back become undone.

( can she feel the scent of your fears, and the earth, and the raindrops against your skin? and she feel the scent of how much you want, and how much you don’t know how? )

she lets go – just as quickly as she held. there’s also a change of pressure there, and you feel unbalanced, unsure. you turn.

and she is gone.

the cup of tea as grown cold.

your wrinkled papers left untouched.

ink pen bleeding all over the table top.

and she is gone.

the door clicks behind her, locking the words that die in your throat, leaving her scent behind.

warmth, prospect, comfort. a brokenness that now she knows you both share. her fear of not being what you need.

mixing with your fear,

with the realization,