bloodshed,

always the same running from something larger than yourself story, shoving money into the jaws of a suitcase, cutting your hair with a steak knife at a rest stop, and you’re off, you’re on the run, a fugitive driving away from something shameful and half-remembered. xxi. weary savage.

[hdxkmyungsoo-deactivated2015011]

beaten. | myungsoo x sehun

Myungsoo pulled his hood closer to his face, shoving his hands in his pocket while his DSLR dangled around his neck. It was mid-November in Seoul and the nights were starting to get chilly, which Myungsoo didn’t mind when he was inside wrapped up in a blanket and drinking hot chocolate. But instead, here he was out in the middle of Hongdae amongst drunken couples and other crazy people who decided that they wanted to venture outside when it was this cold. Myungsoo didn’t want to miss any aspects of Hongdae in his portfolio, if he only went outside at the same time of day he would get the same sort of shots, which would be completely boring. He weaved through back alleyways, watching as men and women stumbled out of bars, clutching their friends and laughing hysterically. Myungsoo took a few snapshots like that, finding it to be endearing.

Tripping over something he yelped loudly, turning back around to yell at the inanimate object. However, what he found was a boy who had to be around his age, scattered with bruises all over his pale skin. Myungsoo bent down with wide-eyes, almost afraid to touch the other boy, as if he would melt under his touch. Myungsoo had seen the boy around the area before, always sporting colorful bruises across his body, but he had never encountered the other up close. 

Myungsoo gulped, tilting his head with widened eyes, “Hey… um. Are you okay? My name is Myungsoo by the way… I’ve seen you around before but this is my first time ever talking to you, huh? Ha! Anyway… I just wanted to know if you were alright, do they hurt? The bruises I mean… Are you cold? I’m Myungsoo… did I mention that? What’s your name?”

[bvllct-blog]

His night tastes like absolution, caught between his trembling teeth as they rattle from the residue of euphoria. It still streams in his veins; the rumbling crowd, the gaping mouths, the roaring applause. The ennui of his weekdays has been burned to soot, the blackened ashes a close resemblance to the bruises that paint his skin. The stark contrast is almost forgotten under the garish illumination that the streetlights provide, and he relishes in the scarcely acquired invisibility. It’s been a privilege to remain unknown, to remain outside the glass of scrutiny.

He’s seated on the short flight of stairs, smoke billowing from his mouth, the waste of nicotine washing the taste of rust in the crevices. A static, placed side by side with the dynamic that singes him with slight anxiety as he witnesses the passing faces, the bumping shoulders. The world is moving, and it’s moving without him. A blur to his eyes. A spot in his memory. He’s a mere bystander instead of the constant movement. Weary feet, knees knocking against each other. He almost forgets the stings on his skin, the cold weather a local anesthesia for his wounds.

His reverie is seared to an end by someone who trips over his legs. He wakes up from it with a start, the realization of the gaffe tails after. Instead of spilling the apologies which only reach the base of his tongue, he’s petrified by the extreme amount of interests that litters the stranger’s face, blatant abuse of attention directed at his fresh injuries. The temptation to fidget brews within, and as he focuses on curbing the surging discomfort from bleeding across his features, the other male has bombarded him with lines of words that he fails to comprehend right away.

A pause wedges itself between the preamble and the answer. Sehun gapes, mouth filled with questions. Unspoken, frozen.

His mind scrambles for answers a second too late. “I’m—I’m okay,” he stammers, the weight of the lie heavy in his mandible. “It... hurts. But I’m all right. I’ll be all right.” Silence scorches for a brief period. The static sings. He glances on the ember that withers at the apex of his cigarette before mentioning the piece of identity that he manages to retain. “I’m Sehun.” He hasn’t tasted his last name for years. It’s been lonely. “My name is Sehun.” The second time he mentions it, he sounds tentative, as though his name is borrowed. “It’s... a pleasure meeting you.” A part of his mother, tattooed in his throat—courtesy, mannerism. The cold might clot the blood on his skin, but it’s the wounds that bloom on his bones that need tending.

[bvllct-blog]

axis,

[hdxminki-deactivated20150101]

*The other male was tall- way taller then Minki, making him wish he had heels on just to even it out a bit more. But no, hed worn flats with no insoles for once and was paying the price. He looked oddly troubled, almost worried, and it made Minki want to ask, to be nosy. Any other day he would have, but not today- not like this. Biting his lip, he offered a small smile to the other male, pushing soggy hair from his face.* I was staring at my feet. If I’d been looking where I was going, I could have avoided you. It’s both of our fault… deal? *Minki wasn’t about to let the other male take all the blame, his own eyes filled with a kind of worry that he normally reserved for people he cared about- it pulled his brows down slightly, his cupid bow shaped lips pulled in a small frown*

[bvllct-blog]

[ — awkwardness dribbles further into him as he notices their surroundings; the drop drop drop of rainwater grows alongside the rush around them. no umbrella, nearly soaked. he’s half-tempted to mirror the stranger’s gesture, pushing the wet strands of his bleakly dyed blonde hair aside, but keeps his hands inside the warm of his pockets. the cotton is almost too rough for his paranoia-accented fingertips, tremors still reverberate in him but it gradually dies down. he’s jittery, wishing that the conversation is ending soon, but the other insists on taking the blame as well, nibbling away at the corner of his patience. words wither at the base of his tongue, dissipating before he has a chance to try and digest any message to convey. he’s silent, discomfort eating his insides away. ] ... [ — a single syllable draws close to the rim of his lips, just a confirmation to end the exchange, but that’s when the silhouette that he knows too well swims into his peripheral view, and his stomach roils. there’s no split second to spare, so he pushes his way past the stranger without a word, brushing against the shoulder a little too harshly on his way. nostalgia burns like acid in his mouth. he feels like vomiting. feet stumble against each other; he’s being a fugitive at its best. ]

[xxhdxsuji-blog-blog]

; black and blue

( ` the idea of milk delivery is nice. the reality is not. it’s tiring, and all beginning at the ungodly hour of six in the morning. truth be told, suji isn’t even a morning person. she only signed up for milk delivery a year and a half ago because she was told that she’d receive a free bicycle along with the job. furthermore, it had been a dream of hers after she had seen it in a drama— not that she’ll ever admit that to anyone, though. )

( ` she stifles a yawn, eyelids still heavy with sleep as she bikes to the milk distributor. from today onwards, she’s told, her route will be a different one. she doesn’t protest, it’s too early in the morning for that. after loading her basket with the amount of bottles she’ll need for the day, she sets off on her way. the new route is unfamiliar, along with the apartment numbers and houses she’s delivering to. one of the addresses leads her to a skate shop, in which she assumes that the milk subscriber resides in the room above it. there’s a boy sitting on the steps with a cigarette between his fingers, and she decides to ask him so as to not waste any time. ) excuse me, do you know where the stairs going up are?

[bvllct-blog]

[ — his nights lately have been another transient stop that happens as a lapse. his slumbers are short, his dreams shorter. the juncture between his wake and sleep has been colored with elongated thoughts, resembling the claws of the monsters that would hide under his childhood bed when midnights beckoned. ] ... [ — this is Saturday night, with Sunday morning crawling into the periphery of the city. he’s battered and bruised, armors clattering on his floor, notes peeking from the corner of his discarded jeans’ pockets. he’s battered and bruised, bones stifled by the weight of the night’s war, but his mind still wanders into the crooks of discolored moments. sepia. monochrome. he wonders if his mother is doing well. he wonders if Sungha is sleeping tight. ]

[ — when the familiar hue of dawn creeps through the rims of his windowpanes, he opens his eyes again. he remembers the distilled images of his mother’s smile in his short-lived sleep. he remembers the starched lines of his father’s words in his latest nightmare. nights have been another transient stop because his subconscious has been too haunted, too plagued by the inklings of fear. ] ... [ — he’s washed the blood in his mouth with the toothpaste, foaming every crevice of the cavity but there are still specks of copper deluding themselves into staying with his teeth. it’s just not enough, he needs more. ] ... [ — his weary sinews scream when he leads his staggering feet down the set of stairs, his bones chanting gratitude when he’s seated on the step in front of the store. the naked street smells like the residue of euphoria, drying alcohol staining the asphalt. he inhales the carcinogen and exhales the fumes, stopping only when a milk deliverer poses a question too early for him to answer. he blinks. once, twice. oh. ] Ah. [ — he speaks more to himself, his diminishing logic lingers. ] It’s... You go through this alley and the stairs are on the back. [ — he gestures towards the small, personal hallway that leads to his residence, unaware of the other’s intent. ]

[xxxwonho]

americano // sehun x himchan

(’ there’s many different scenes that himchan is associated with, and this is by far his favorite. he knows nothing but comfort at the sound of coffee bubbling in the pot and that odd noise made by doling out whipped cream— it’s the foolproof way to lull him into the calm, though not quite serene man that people have become accustomed to linking to this quaint store. at this point in his career he’d gotten quite adept at remembering and recognizing familiar faces— and this one was no different.)

(’ blonde hair, lean build, an expression that only seemed haunting to dark eyes only because he believed it to be. yes, he recognized the young man that had been showing up for quite a while now. he wasn’t surprised at the order— he was quite good at remembering them. and on a random whim (because it certainly wasn’t from the goodness of his heart) he added a pastry that he’d snatched off of a fresh baking sheet, offering both it and the ordered drink to the returning customer.) here, something new we’ve made up. tell me how you like it, yeah?

[bvllct-blog]

[ — his morning is heavy with the weight of the previous night’s battlefield, his armors scattered and littered on the floor like an ugly aftermath, like he was losing. but he wasn’t; it’s just that the consequence of winning resembles that of losing. the consequence of winning comes in the form of pieces of shrapnel embedding themselves all across his skin, accompanying the black and blue that has become the common norm in his life. a sliver of groan slips past his mouth when he picks up his weary bones from the comfort of his bed, the creaking echoed more from his body than the decrepit springs. ]

[ — this is one of those days when the confines of his room have no longer become a sanctuary; the dusty nooks are covered in too much debris and he’s choking. he needs a change of atmosphere. another suffocation: the reflection of himself in the mirror, looking pasty with the livid bruises splattered as stark contrasts. he needs a way out. ]

[ — his jacket doesn’t preserve enough warmth, his hood enough coverage, but he’s moving. his feet are stumbling on the sidewalk, and he moves past people as though they weren’t spending a split moment of their lives wondering why he lives with those colors. his destination is close, and he shoulders his way in, inhaling the sharp scent of caffeine as he makes his way to the counter. a familiar face. an unfamiliar complementary item. he blinks at the other male quizzically before nodding when the explanation arrives. ] I will. Thank you very much. [ — a splinter of smile causes him to cringe (he recalls how that giant eagerly connected those bones against his face; once, twice, before he dodged the rest). he nods again instead, before heading towards that solitary table, surrounded by people but enclosed by this sphere that he makes up himself, playing make believe to create a makeshift haven. ] ... [ — he’s soon in the company of that creased notebook and the halfway-dying pen, sketch embossed against the paper so fervently he leaves more stains of black and blue on his fingers. ]

[inncr]

[bvllct-blog]

axis,

[hdxminki-deactivated20150101]

*It was a rare male day, Minki dressed in black skinny jeans and a hoodie that carried the stars on it. Even his shoes were male shoes, a pair of studded boots that had seen better days. His hair was pulled back into a pony tail, his face bared of makeup as he made his way to work. The rain splattered down onto him, unheeded and uncared about by the male as music blared through his headphones, blocking out the world.Normally Minki woke up and felt like wearing his best heels, but not today. The events of the week had thrown him for a bit of a loop, causing him to withdraw and hide inside of himself. It was raining hard enough to drench his hair during the walk, water running down his face as he stared at the ground with each step. No one noticed him like this- he was just another small boy on the side walk, not worth noticing without the bright heels and vivacious attitude that came with the clothes he wore. This side of him wasn’t confident or sure of himself. This side was sad and quiet, nothing in the eyes of himself or the world. The sudden feel of someone crashing into him shocked him out of his thoughts as he crashed back against the wall, blinking rain from his eyes as he looks up. Minki was always looking up, only standing at 5’3 in normal shoes. Was he ok? Question of the week….* Yes, sorry if i was in the way. *he says in a soft voice, hands lifting to remove the ear bud that hadn’t been yanked out* are you okay?

[bvllct-blog]

[ — the victim of his absentminded gaffe has delicate edges to his (her?) softness, all tender bones and unspoken frailty. first impression etches something akin to guilt in Sehun, as though he’d been severely wronging the stranger to the point where there’s no return, no forgiveness. the guilt leaks and seeps, an excessive version of a triviality, yet the knowledge doesn’t render him willing to let this go. did it hurt where he bumped into the stranger, did his jagged veins carve a returning impression that’s too sharp he dilutes the stranger’s softness? sometimes he feels like the toxin that streams deep in the society, his ragged breath nothing but fumes and his verbal advances vitriol. it’s silly, stupid, idiotic. ] ... [ — he parts his lips to tell the stranger that it’s entirely his fault, but nothing apart from a wisp of breath comes out. is he okay? there’s the inkling of the ghost slithering under his flesh, and goose bumps wield themselves like a weapon, a coping mechanism. against what, he doesn’t know. he’s not facing an opponent—he’s turning his back against the opponent, if any. he’s running, running, running. if there’s anything that he could deem as one, it would be himself and his cowardice, spilling onto the streets and leaving pungent streaks everywhere. ] I’m okay. [ — his answer is practiced, mechanical. cold. he’s drenched. ] You weren’t being in the way. It was my fault. I’m sorry.

[bvllct-blog]

these city streets,

[ — self-destruction tastes like rust under his tongue, chewed for too long that the taste has gone stale. he has to eventually swallow it, or spit it out. it’s an outward or inward catastrophe, brewing at the pit of his being, and he’s withering, again. ] ... [ — there’s violence budding at the base of his stomach and he thinks that he’s addicted, another fight doesn’t occur until another midnight, until another clatter of euphoria against metal fence. he longs for something to occupy his limbs; he already lathered himself with the waste of nicotine all day long, filling himself with residue up to the neck. his mouth is decaying, hoping for something to wash away the pungent reek of silence, and so he vacates the apartment a little after twelve, bracing himself for another splatter of aimless wandering. the cold in his bones as soon as he’s exposed to the starless sky reminds him of home, of sleeping with his eyes open, dreaming another dream that felt borrowed. it still feels borrowed, these hollow dreams in his mind. he’s still as clueless, but this is just a different path, a different brand of aimless wandering. a different brand of lost. ] ... [ — still, as lost as he is, he relishes in the night jaunt, in the sight of the naked streets spanning before his eyes and the absence of daylight dust accompanying his lonely steps. his leather jacket doesn’t provide much warmth and the autumn breeze feels like sandpaper against his skin (too pallid, too fair, too translucent). travelling across Hongdae is another familiarity, yet he’s still lacking a destination, taking a step into the first store that his caprice falls on. just another fast food chain. ] ... [ — he makes his way to the cashier and orders only a large cup of soda, wanting to cleanse the weight of stifling silence from his mouth. he chooses a table in a corner, right where he can watch as the traffic goes by to emphasize how easily the world walks past without him. (and it won’t wait for him to wash the blood off his mouth.) ]

[bvllct-blog]

axis,

[ — this is how he hides himself: under the cold sheets of rain, where everything feels like a static. the scattered sound eventually grows into uniformity, providing a white noise in the background. he sits at a  bus halt pretending that he’s waiting for someone, smoking a cigarette after another, flicking ashes on the spaces next to his tattered shoes to leave an inkling of his whereabouts. another series of tendrils of smokes travel past his lips when another bus comes and another set of passengers descend and ascend via the short stack of stairs, and he becomes the only constant there for at least a good hour, watching as the sky fissured itself and poured petrichor all over the crevices of the city, watching as the drizzles turned to rain turned to hurricane. it feels good to be a constant measure, for once, instead of being the factor that constantly moves, constantly runs, constantly escapes. ] ... [ — it’s a measure that doesn’t last as long as he’d like. he swears he saw a glimpse of a mirrored figure, meandering his way through the crowd made of unfolded umbrellas. he swears his saw a ghost of his past, a shadow to his present, and that’s enough to fire him to his feet. it might be paranoia, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. swallowing the lump in his throat, he scurries away from the bus halt, heading the opposite way. this is another running, but this doesn’t feel like something that he’s good at anymore. this feels like scampering away, ankles tangled with each other, nearly tripping himself with every hastened step taken. and of course, a cliché wouldn’t miss seizing the chance to push him against a stranger, a collision under the drop drop drop of rainwater. he clears his throat awkwardly, staggering backward to ensure that the person is all right. his voice drowns itself in formal panic when he speaks. ] Sorry, it was my fault. Are you all right?

[bvllct-blog]

stale,

[hdxjhoseok-deactivated20141125]

         soft wisps of grey smoke spill absently past parted lips, the ravenette absent behind dark eyes; the same which are turned up to the night sky, captivated by the vastness of stars and the constellations visible, or at least those that persevere through the light pollution that plagues the city. the late chill pricks at his exposed skin, the wind pushing loose strands which idly brush against his forehead— but he doesn’t appear to mind; too abstracted by his own intrusive thoughts he does nothing but enjoys the natural scenery that hangs vigilant in the sky, the usual distraction of the city’s beating pulse blurs into distant white noise, his soul almost completely at ease for the first time in a long while.

         time might have healed all kinds of wounds, but it would take more than a few band-aid words to patch up the bullet holes heartbreak left. involuntarily he sighed, starless oculars pinning their gaze on the cement below, pulling his cigarette from agape lips as he  tosses it onto the ground. lifting his head as an unfamiliar voice reaches his ears, the ravenette lifts his gaze, squinting for a short moment before taking a slight step back, watching the stranger closely as he gives a nod, hoseok was a bit out of it— he wasn’t acting like his usual upbeat self.

         "—yeah, give me a sec." and there he goes, unzipping his bag, the man pulls out a cigarette pack which was neatly stacked on top of the other items scattered in his bag. he didn’t usually smoke unless he was stressed out— he tended to stay away from addictions. popping the packet open, he furrows his brows before glancing up at the stranger, "i’m out. i think i just finished my last one— sorry, dude." he’d offer buying another packet for the stranger, but something tells him to keep his distance for now.

[bvllct-blog]

[ — and this is what he has become: a beggar. not only for a cigarette, but also for liberty. somewhere under his bed, silent prayers to a forgotten god are tucked. somewhere beyond the reach of his fingers, jars of empty promises are stored. he feels like the lost sheep that his mother ever prayed to god about, soliciting a way to freedom from this, from the clanking shackles of sentiments that have bottled up and deposited themselves on the shelves of his chest. it results in this: a walk, a drink, a smoke. it puts creases in his mouth. it makes him less lonely. ]

[ — he shifts his weight from foot to foot, subtly, softly, as though measuring the weight of the world on each of his shoulder. the stranger doesn’t seem alarmed, readily forfeiting his free, unperturbed time for someone whom he doesn’t know. the stranger doesn’t seem alarmed, despite the apparent disruption to thoughts that his bruises perpetually inflict on people; although maybe this time it’s just the darkness, swallowing the stranger’s focus elsewhere. nevertheless, he’s grateful for the distraction from the main attraction of his features. ]

[ — amusement sits in the place of disappointment when the answer eventually arrives. it’s just his luck. he shakes his head, feeling the hopes drop from the strands of his unkempt hair, and offers the stranger a ghost of a smile. it hurts when he tugs the corner of his lips—last night unfolds itself in the form of a sting. ] Ah, all right. Sorry for disturbing you, then. [ —the stretch of his lips widen in something that resembles a smile, but it’s maybe more of a line, mirroring the returning static at the base of his skull. he doesn’t leave, standing idly, fingers picking at the frayed end of his jacket. ]

[sehun88]

[whydotheyalwaysfindme-deactivat]

Ignore every instinct to flee. Remember: you are a monster too

Destiny; fieldplate gauntlets description (via splitterherzen)

[bvllct-blog]

carpe noctem,

[ — this is how he breaks himself: by letting a place own a small bit of him. piece by piece. it’s like dropping bread crumbs in all the random places, letting them remember him a little with every footstep, every breath taken. and this is how he feels full: by retracing his steps, finding himself in the nooks and crannies of the city where its dusty crevices and flickering lights can muster those feelings of entirety in him. totality and its complexity. totality and its absolutism. ]

[ — he travels through the fog-veiled streets before the dawn breaks, the smell of raw fumes and the scent of rubber against asphalt still clinging to his exposed skin. his knuckles are still embossed with the pale that highlighted itself all across the peaks, a result of apprehension. composure is a matter of pretense. ] ... [ — walls covered in moss, fissures, chipped paint. streets covered in debris, gashes, crooked dents. his pieces, scattered like the particles of dirt, spilling from his ribcage and returning to the creases of his palms. he imbibes the memories that he’s splattered all over these roads, downing the blurry shadows like a starved man catching an oasis between his teeth. it’s learning to crawl all over again, walk all over again. this time, he’s not running. this time, he pretends that his feet are weary. hence, he doesn’t miss a single piece, a single reminiscence. ]

[ — his mind counts the tired summation; this is where he emptied his pack of cigarettes, this is where he stared too long at his reflection in a puddle of rainwater. this is where he vomited his dinner, tension slithering in his sinews. this is where his limbs were too lonely he’d cut them off. ] ... [ — his last stop is on the bridge, where dawn intrudes his moment. and the presence that he’s seen once before, on the exact same spot. this feels like a lucid dream, but his tongue curling around these arbitrary words feels too real. ] Morning walk?

[2kfitme]

Visit Original Link

[bvllct-blog]

take me to church,

[ — he finds himself in the unknown crook of Seoul when the sunset licks the city clean from the daily residue, the horizon seeming to draw closer to his hollow shadows. he finds himself standing in front of an abandoned chapel, its outline billowing from the wavering illuminations. it’s almost as though his mother’s god no longer loves the place—its absence of worships draws sinful melodies, and he wonders if it deserves the subtle hatred implied by the nature, decaying and rotting and corroding its every crevice. he wonders if he deserves the same punishment for abandoning the floor of a cathedral, his funeral presented in front of his god far too early. his god bless, god bless, god bless had been skewed into I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry; back turned, axis pivoted. he was no longer looking up to the asymmetric planks—he was looking up to the sky. ]

[ — in his head are his mother’s knees, scraped raw from the wooden floorboards. her tongue spelled blessings more than it would curl around her son’s name. he wonders if it’s changed, if her amen has transcended into please bring him back, please bring him back—please let him return. please let your lost sheep return. (she’d look at him questioning if he’d lost his way, this lonely black sheep. he wasn’t, isn’t. he was born lost—being lost is his right path.) ] ... [ — he was ten when he started thinking that his mother was clueless for someone so pious (didn’t she talk to her god, guidance descended from the stars to whisper her the answers?). her lips tasted like soft prayers against his forehead, her Sundays a vehement routine that he tucked on his sleeves as a reminder. a reminder, of how the holy string of sentences would depart from his mouth, numb. a reminder, of how the cool of the rosary beads felt against the tip of his thumb, absolute. he recalls how she looked beautiful under the impressions of the belief that she’s been holding onto like a lifeline. (she’s a series of broken wrists and shattered bones—she needs a spine to prop her up.) ]

[ — a curl of a blackened smile burns the corners of his mouth like acid and he, again, turns his back on the deserted site. hood drawn, hiding the black and blue that proves the existence of god (he prayed and he prayed until his throat smoldered). ] ... [ a stranger later, he comes to a stop and pulls his hood down, exposing his indulgent nature in decadence, but a helpless smile splays itself across his dry lips. ] Excuse me, do you know where the nearest bus halt is?

[bvllct-blog]

absence,

[ — mornings are normally foreign for him, made of soot of last night’s euphoria, leaving his body heavy with the weight of the collected dust. he doesn’t usually pick his bones apart and reassemble them until it’s time to work, until it’s time that he must. mornings are the anchor that render him weary, illuminated with the pseudo-wakefulness, drifting drifting drifting in the limbo where dreams are out of reach but consciousness is also a few million of tantalizing steps away. ] ... [ — a morning that he’d call an exception later, he staggers on a naked sidewalk, only littered with the brisk colors of autumn here and there. his tattered clothes are barely enough to cover his skin and bones from the biting weather, so he has a solid reason as to why another cigarette has been sitting between his chapped lips when dawn barely transfers into morning. he burrows his idle set of fingers into the front pocket of his jeans to occupy both of his limbs, walking without any solid destination. he’s there to inhale the scent of secondhand lives, invading people’s business tacitly, living vicariously through the buses departing from the halts, through the busy feet scampering across the streets. his own steps are jagged and uncertain, marked with intermittent stops as he takes a mouthful of smokes into his lungs. he thinks he sees flashes of Sungha everywhere—among the sea of foreign faces, among the mournful quiet of the morning break. but it’s just him, standing alone, his reflections on the full-length glass windows sometimes too much for him to handle. ] ... [ he eventually comes to a longer transitory stop and flicks the last ashes of his cigarette, considering returning to the apartment when something clings to the lower half of his shin, clawing at the fabrics of his worn out jeans. a cat. a black cat. ] ... [ — looking around to locate any possible whereabouts of an owner, he’s faced with nonexistence. he quirks an eyebrow before picking up the animal, holding it up high above his head as though to inspect it. ]

[bvllct-blog]

spillage,

You remember your mother’s eyes.

You remember her eyes as you sit on the long, decrepit bench pressed against the equally decrepit wall, imagining spinning yourself on the axis that grows narrower and narrower you feel like tipping over. It creaks resolutely beneath your weight as you recall the way she looked at you, wondering if you were lost. Wondering if you were too lost (to save—but there was never anything to save, not when it was you that she’d try saving you from). You don’t think you were lost, but now, you aren’t certain if this is the right route towards whatever it is. You never have an end goal, just the road.

Crack, crack, crack. You, chipping away, cracking from the corner to the core. Somewhere along the way, you aren’t so sure anymore. You aren’t sure if this is survival or suicide. The two somewhat coalesces, leaving a line that blurs in the middle, and you start doubting whether or not you can make it. There’s the sound of both defeat and death echoing like war screams against your eardrums. Stepping backward and forward become the choices which smother you with their delicate, forewarning fingers. You’re no seer. This is a gamble.

(You’d pray; you’d pray like how your mother would trace the beads of her rosary, whispers spilling from the corners of her mouth as she scraped her knees against the cathedral’s floor. You used to think that she was too pious for her own good, chewing prayers for breakfast to no avail. You’d pray but praying feels too much like losing.)

You inhale and exhale until your lungs become nothing but hollow vessels, gouged from the fear that turns itself into the stale of your breaths. Rubbing your fingers together until the frictions evoke pain, you stare at the locker again, imbibing the sight of the thorns that previously pinprick your eyes. Derogatory, stereotyping nicknames. Fresh paint. Fresh paint, for the freshest blood spilled on the ring. You stare at the locker thinking that it would be enough to muster the ire, planting brambles to replace your flesh.

You stare and stare and stare until your eyes sting.

(They leave acid at the back of your eyes. They corrode you with the taste of the world.)

You remember your mother’s eyes.

You wonder what she’d think if she ever saw you climb the short flight of stairs, into a ring surrounded with metal fence that spells demise. Another night, another sacrificing yourself into the slaughterhouse. Maybe tonight this will be your morgue—spilling too much blood, splintering the wrong bones. Possibilities swim in the periphery of your mind, rendering you dizzy, but you don’t mind. You’ve always had a knack for running. If all else fails, maybe your barbed skin and bruised feet would bring you away from the round, labeling yourself with another brand of depravity.

(If there’s a clear opportunity to escape, it is now. And you’re not running. Last time you were running, you fractured a heart.)

Another taste of the world: trying not to have trembling knees upon being faced with an opponent twice your size. Words ricochet in your mind, trying to soothe the rippling apprehension. Heavier means slower—gravity pulls these people harder than it should, like a punishment. You’d like to think that you stand a chance.

You’d like to think that you stand a chance although the rust of last night’s fight is still fresh in your mouth, leaving specks of copper. The cold of the floor is still pressed against your cheek. The darkness that engulfed you whole still knuckles in your skull.

The first strike is driven into your stomach and the taste of iron is renewed. The chanting reverberates in your head, snickers and chatters inundating you in manmade nausea. He catches you under his claw like a prey, and your feet bring you nowhere. You struggle beneath his weight. It’s too late to run.

Crack, crack, crack. Your bones, your body.

You thought you couldn’t be more of a ghost than you already were, seeping from the interstices of people’s fingers like a wisp of smoke. But this is an act of disappearing, and you feel lighter, a lot more insignificant. It’s too late to run, but it’s not too late to fight back.

Crack, crack, crack. Your blood, your sinew.

You see flashes of money being exchanged. The newbie, losing. The newbie, drowning. What a lonely world, you think, before picking up your pieces and cradling them in your arms as you scurry towards a corner.

You remember your mother’s eyes.

The world is blurry underneath the influence of shaken focus and jumbled thoughts, running in circles within the confines of your mind as you try citing what you wrote on the back of your hand last night. That is the sternum, and under it, the solar plexus. Down under, you will meet the nether regions. Illegal, but you were hit there a few fights ago (it was risible how you thought you were dying; you wrote a letter to your parents and a text to Sungha and an instruction to whomever found your cadaver to send those when they located your decaying bones).

You lunge yourself forward. Rule number one: never underestimate someone who looks smaller than you. Rule number two: never underestimate someone who looks smaller than you. Two jabs into the solar plexus before you knife the side of your hand against the jugular, scrawny knees hitting blindly with the smallest exploitation over what momentum that you can gain. You lose it when he wraps an arm around your torso and collides you against the metal fence, the rattling elicits more clapping, more cheering. You, the circus. You, the clown.

He picks you up like you weight nothing and smashes the back of your head against the floor. Trepidation escalates within—this isn’t supposed to be a dying game. But you bleed, you bleed, you bleed. (You’re bendingbreakingbruising.)

Maybe it’s the heady scent of copper that inebriates you, maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t written another letter, another text, another instruction, but you leap towards him. All that you want is for them to shut up, to shut their fucking mouths up because this is your fight. This isn’t only about surviving this round.

You remember your mother’s eyes, lined with pity. You’re proving her wrong. You’re proving her wrong.

(You will prove her wrong even if it results in you buried six feet under way before Sungha.)

[bvllct-blog]

stale,

[ — distant throbbing still marks the beginning of his evening, going on a constant like the sirens that wail outside his window the moment he’s smoking his third cigarette of the day. it’s forest fire within, drowning his lungs in smokes. ] ... [ — his bones are still aching from last night’s rounds, taking two consecutively just to satiate the bitter longings of hurting at the base of his skull. (it was better to hurt physically than mentally—and it was cathartic to let loose, to extract his self-hatred and pin it against someone else’s flesh.) his fingers are still lonely and cold, and he yearns for another smoke when he notices that he doesn’t have another, but purchasing the whole pack means another never-ending string. he still covets a longer life, no matter how ludicrous that might sound for someone who treads precariously on a thin filament for a job on a daily basis. still, if it’s another gradual suicide, he doesn’t wish to make it so obvious. (such a cowardice.) with a promise of the night sinks into his lips, he gets to his feet and leaves the darkness of his apartment, skin smelling like the stale residue of a day’s absence of jaunt, skin smelling like despair stitched into the corners of another reckless addiction. ]

[ — the streets of Hongdae are still veiled with the usual miasma of a nightlife, sending him into solitary musings as he travels aimlessly, feet knocking against each other in a blatant absence of care. his eyes are canopied with the jagged lassitude that he knows well how to don, searching for someone kind enough to provide him with something, anything, to help him occupy his hollow mouth. ] ... [ — his target falls onto someone who happens to remain still on a corner of a street, seemingly making friends with the city lights. he approaches him, a little tentative but his feet are hastened, his pace always ahead of everyone else. ] Excuse me. [ — he starts, voice lined with gruff. he’s tempted to chuckle; he sounds too desperate even to his own ears. maybe his face spells the same impression as well, lined with black and blue from his latest venture. ] Do you happen to have a spare cigarette?