トリカブト

This unbloomed self reminds the stem of the self that once was untouched by the death that runs through his family’s veins. The self that once believed that life was in his veins, the self that still had its wings on his back. He hated that self. It was the self that ate out hands without a second thought and swallowed his own poison till that’s all his lips could taste. He wanted that self back. 

❝ For when the garden asks to touch its roots. Stomp on them.  ❞

Were the words a warning to this pure self ? To the self that still loved to look at the blooms that danced on his skin. He was no longer a man, he was a vase to the beauty that was praised.  He could no longer feel the life that tore through his nerves and sucked the life from his veins. 

He was cracked and the roots of his pride were growing through the slits where his wings used to be. How he wished to taste the ignorance again and have the feeling of freedom in his lungs. 

                    ‘is what i do living? you think this is honor? medusa matron has turned this heart to stone and i have no notion of what my honor is–we both decay and wilt in this garden of begotten blood and i think it makes for suited grave, does it not? you the flower, and i nothing but the mud under’t. we make quite the tragedy-as the poets say.’

                                              His beauty shall in these                                                black lines be seen                                               and he in them still                                                                         green

                    ‘i was born with these nails-the first human emotion experienced  a rejection of my own god given grace. i crawled from my mothers womb a damnation with holes in my hands and feet, the mark of a beast on the back of my palm. you ask when i will be nailed? dear cousin-i have carried my cross from conception.’

                    ‘are we such ghosts? specters slighted in seraphic vessels- how riddled we are in gabriel’s arrows. fearful to turn and expose quill’d backs as if we may fall happily back upon them. tell me cousin-do you quiver on your cross or bare it as these bruises?’

[ open ]

‘words are ephemeral, faultily phantasmic yet intrinsic–wouldn’t you agree? i have been haunted but ne’r such a thing as i have been words.’

Fingers meet together to create a sound that echoes throughout the empty room. Petals were gathered around his feet and the purple was dotted with a dark red. Hues could not look at the blood for the fear of the imperfection ate at his stomach. 

❝ You know, some people dare say that the pen is mightier than the sword. ❞

❝ I’ve seen you before. Do you remember me ? ❞

❝ You have nice eyes. ❞

Eyes stare down at the plate of food not sure what he should try first. Parts of him wonder if he should even eat any of the food that was set in front of him. 

❝ Are you sure that you are doing that right ?  ❞