#wehlp

-

you’ve never been the one to break. 

you crack at the edges, and crumble some days, but what you do is never break. you tell yourself that to break is to lose, and to lose means that you have to start over. 

(and you hate square one.)

square one looked like eating pancakes at 5am in that shitty twenty four hour diner three blocks away from the hospital, where you were sat across your brother who wanted nothing more than to faceplant in bed. square one was flinching at your father’s voice, when he says your name, and recoiling everytime your brother would say the word stupid, and point at you like you were the scum of the earth. 

square one was the deepest of the cracks, but what you did was hold your breath, trying to glue yourself together because you still. never. broke. 

(your mother tells you that you’re strong, with tubes in her body, and love in her eyes. you bled for her, then, remembering that the cracks on your body were still wounds to the skin in the end.)

takahiro’s never been the one to soothe your wounds. he never gave you bandages, nor squeezed your hand. he stayed quiet: at 2 am when you’d wake and do nothing but weep, and at 2pm when you’re in front of a grave holding the yellow blooms death never let her see. he sits across you in the dining table, a glass of peach iced tea in front of you, and slices of mango served cold on a plate because that’s the way he reminds you that even without words or kisses, he’s right there. 

“your battle is yours,” he says. “you don’t have to fight it, everyday, but even when you do nothing but cry, i think you’re still taking steps towards winning.”

(because victory feels like wiping your tears, and feeling your breaths even out at 2:47 am. it’s feeling yourself snap out of the haze, breaking out of the chains of nostalgia at 3PM, when you remember that you should light the candle beside the gravestone with her name and clasp your hands together for a prayer.)

“hi mom,” you pray. “i’m here and i’m still cracked.”

“i don’t know what forgiveness means, and there’s still so much wounds on my arms that still bleed, but i’m not broken apart yet.”

and takahiro always steps back. 

you know he’s there, because you feel that he’s there. when you cry, he holds out a pack of tissues, and even if he doesn’t rub your back, the fact that he always carries a pack of it with him wherever he goes makes you feel held enough.

she doesn’t answer, because the dead stays silent, but you did always see white butterflies around the yellow roses you’d leave beside her name. takahiro bows his head, and tells her that the rosemaries are finally planted in a garden, finally moved from its little pot by the windowsill, and tells her that there are more days where he sees you bloom than wilt.

he’s never been the type to pray, but because he knows she was, he would always bow his head and clasp his hand, standing in a familiar stance as you. 

@akumanoken

Defalt’s Entry:

Well, I wasn’t full on angry? But I guess when Vi took back wrench’s mask, which i stole.

I mean yeah, it wasn’t mine to begin with but That’s what that DeathSuck member gets when he leaves the garage door open and falls asleep in the middle of one of the lil projects in that mess!

thank fuck Vi hasn’t found the other things I stole from their hideouts...