and i wish he would just fucking LIVE instead of surrounding himself with constant clocks. he wakes up everyday to the sound of silence and his home is nothing but hearts-alone and the odor that comes from a human body. he rubs his eyes, curses his life, and scratches at his scars until they bleed again. he writes letters of how his spine aches from carrying so much weight (of guilt and sorrow and other peoples sad eyes). sometimes, in the afternoon where orange and tellow hues leak into the kitchen through the windows, he'll smoke cigarettes and dance to the likes of old country records his mother forgot to take with her when she died. he talks to himself, carrying on conversations with a tape recorder pretending his voice was someone else's - a boy with large green eyes and black hair and red veins and a heart that thrives (because then maybe he could steal it and live like it were his own). he drowns himself in sorrow and autumn and moons he wished he could swallow but can barely even reach.
on sundays we sit on his porch as i sketch his undertones and ghostly skin and bony fingers. he tells me all about his father and the way he never went one night withought his arms (wrappedtight).
i cry for him, this boy and his tragic veins and all the things he wish he was and will never be. id rup out my heart for him -- stitch it into his rib cage right next to his lungs because i know his body is just BEGGING for a new warmth.
and i whisper.
and we're on the phone right now; i can feel him dying. the cold leaks and his voice disappears.
&i wish id stop staring at this mirror.