#innerclaims

     the night - line is polluted with city lights — he wonders,   not for the first time,   not for the last time,   how the stars would look at this exact moment. if he could see them. “   it’s dark now. you must’ve been looking for a long time.   “ there’s no constellations ( has he ever seen them? cassiopeia? cygnus?  ) — just black intertwining black,   nothing with nothing,   and just,   wow. that’s so fucking bleak,   like hungry child hands and an arsenic lullaby. he’s bleeding tar from his mouth. the gurgling sounds like jazz underwater. “   for the fastest hero,   you sure are slow.   “

@innerclaims​ .

       “   giyuu - san!   “ his voice is a lilac - dream — soft meadows and citrus cat - naps. the kind of baritone that prompts lavender and peonies from dry - husked ground. and his smile! like a sun rupturing into pink clouds and soft breezes. like a wind - chime. “   how’re you doing? have you been taking care of yourself?   “

     ‘   bitch,   stop tryna read that paper,   f🐬ck tryna read.   i hot wired a car,   let’s go hotbox that shit.   ’

A SORT OF OMNIPRESENT PRESSURE holds his throat in a stranglehold ― like delicate claws peeling off the flesh above his adam’s apple. peeled open eyes and peeled pink fruit wilting under summer. this is strength ― this is withering beneath the force of something inevitable. “   so. . .   you’re the water pillar?   “

     ❛    we  should  play  hooky  sometime !   ❜

“ how are you feeling? “   perhaps asking something beyond the soreness of their recent exercise.