Dark cloud on the horizon; boots that hit the ground like thunder when he wants you to know that he’s coming; scares the birds out of the trees when he’s coming; likes the birds, and so he likes that they’re flying away, for their own good. A presence so loud no-one notices they haven’t heard him speaking—his eyes speak for him, his hands, his hair, the sharp cut of his jaw; is not used to people listening to what he has to say for himself so he still shouts, still screams, before he thinks to speak softly. Can speak so softly, wants to speak so softly, wants to soothe the torn-open ache in the back of his throat but the cigarettes feel so good on the way down; the smoke reminds him that his lungs are still expanding. Buzzing like a power line, air around him crackling; waiting for the discharge, waiting, waiting, always for something, right on the starting line, for the crack of the pistol, for the moment to run like hell, but he looks down to find he’s already running. Jumps at fireworks, at bright lights too close and too sudden; grins, shows his canines, says it’s the dog in him. It is not the dog in him. Dog eared poetry books, underlining the repetition; reread a hundred times, repetition; hating the repetition, repetition; feels trapped, again, repetition; firewhiskey, again, repetition, to drown the thing pacing his ribcage, trapped, repetition; keeps not learning from the same mistake, repetition; he’s trying, repetition, but it feels like pounding his fist against a stone wall. Pounds his fist against a stone wall and the bones shatter, more brittle than they ever looked before the moment they splintered. Waiting for someone to lick his wounds clean, to lick him clean, to make him feel clean, to touch him. His eyes are speaking for him again, repetition: they are saying touch me not.
stormborns
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
janainaart
yousharknotpass
dededos
