To flee is life, to linger death

He was born the son of two heroinists; life has never been friends with him, and he refuses to make peace. His skin is like porcelain, pale - and accompanied by the scar of a dog bite. His smiles are few yet beautiful. The first time I met him, he made out with his best friend. He's a known troublemaker, and this minimal town resizes his every mistake into disasters.

Long eyelashes framing green irises, red shoe soles snubbing out cigarettes, kisses on August nights, the freckle above his collar bone.
He can live on pizza and coke but never get fat; party every weekend and never tire; his taste in music is awful but he loves to dance; he is just an inexhaustible source of energy. He is all I ever wanted to be; unstructured yet motivated, wild and unpredictable, impulsive and free, uncontrollable, and so young. Only living for the moment; spending no time ahead of now or back in time. He somehow found that constantly fleeing now that I looked for so long.

I was lost and longing away, he was high and conquering the world; we were unlucky to get in each other's way.

I had never hoped for it, never expected it, and never ever wanted it, but I symphathized with someone lacking compassion; I fell in love with someone lacking a heart. I tell this in review, although I don't know where I am; in the end, the beginning, the middle?
He crushed me so harshly. So easily. I let him do it, just like everything else.

I hate to hear "I told you so", because I also knew this day was coming. I also knew he would sink me to the bottom.

Posted on March 13th, 2010 at 08:51pm


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