"My heart is not in my throat.
It is pounding too hard,
secure in my chest,
no, the weight at the back of my throat
is not my heart."
It is pounding too hard,
secure in my chest,
no, the weight at the back of my throat
is not my heart."
Tell me your bad dreams and I will build you a man.
Tell me the things you love and hate and I will build you a man.
Tell me how all this, and everything else, matters very little when you are screaming at the void so hard your lungs pop and deflate like so many balloons on so many birthdays.
Paint him in like a thing out of a time, like a thing with a heavy head.
Paint him in like a falling star.
Paint him back out so you can forget his name and his wolf smile, his wild eyes like a trapped animal. Try to remember what it was. Try to forget what it was. None of it matters when you're screaming at the void.
He is the falling star, a thing out of time, a thing displaced. Andras is not conscious or at least not lucid. He has not been--conscious or lucid--since before... well, before. This does not change just because the crust of some other strange planet is rushing up to take him, to kiss his bones into dust and answer all of his impossibly morbid questions about death and dying with one clear, clangorous sentence: it is going to hurt.
He wakes just before the broken bones, tumbling and aching and he can't pinpoint what direction up is, just knows he has to find it. All the animal instinct Andras has left is begging him to live, live, live, here at the end. It does not need to yell for long.
There is the distinct sensation of suction, the loud crack of thunder as the air around him is suddenly pushed out of place. And then: light and color and silence. All around him is a black so dark it sings and the distinct, awful smell of stars expanding and collapsing and being born over and over again just as he is sure he is being born over and over and over again. Andras doesn't remember losing consciousness a second time but it must have happened.
Or, at the very least, he knows that he closes and opens his eyes and nothing happens. He closes and opens his eyes again, and is standing in a snowy plain surrounded by the stink of buffalo far older than he is, and a pounding in his head that he can hear over the meager but milling crowd. His first thought is "fuck this."
Paint in the bruises, paint in the seething and sizzling under his skin. Paint in the stern frown like your father used to give you and you have made some abomination that calls itself a man but not a man itself.
Andras takes off his glasses and brushes them gently with the tip of one ink-black feather.
His second thought, one that he says aloud: "Fine, I guess."
Tell me the things you love and hate and I will build you a man.
Tell me how all this, and everything else, matters very little when you are screaming at the void so hard your lungs pop and deflate like so many balloons on so many birthdays.
Paint him in like a thing out of a time, like a thing with a heavy head.
Paint him in like a falling star.
Paint him back out so you can forget his name and his wolf smile, his wild eyes like a trapped animal. Try to remember what it was. Try to forget what it was. None of it matters when you're screaming at the void.
He is the falling star, a thing out of time, a thing displaced. Andras is not conscious or at least not lucid. He has not been--conscious or lucid--since before... well, before. This does not change just because the crust of some other strange planet is rushing up to take him, to kiss his bones into dust and answer all of his impossibly morbid questions about death and dying with one clear, clangorous sentence: it is going to hurt.
He wakes just before the broken bones, tumbling and aching and he can't pinpoint what direction up is, just knows he has to find it. All the animal instinct Andras has left is begging him to live, live, live, here at the end. It does not need to yell for long.
There is the distinct sensation of suction, the loud crack of thunder as the air around him is suddenly pushed out of place. And then: light and color and silence. All around him is a black so dark it sings and the distinct, awful smell of stars expanding and collapsing and being born over and over again just as he is sure he is being born over and over and over again. Andras doesn't remember losing consciousness a second time but it must have happened.
Or, at the very least, he knows that he closes and opens his eyes and nothing happens. He closes and opens his eyes again, and is standing in a snowy plain surrounded by the stink of buffalo far older than he is, and a pounding in his head that he can hear over the meager but milling crowd. His first thought is "fuck this."
Paint in the bruises, paint in the seething and sizzling under his skin. Paint in the stern frown like your father used to give you and you have made some abomination that calls itself a man but not a man itself.
Andras takes off his glasses and brushes them gently with the tip of one ink-black feather.
His second thought, one that he says aloud: "Fine, I guess."
Ooc: feel free to pester him at will. or hug him. he could use both.
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
