brckcnboy:
‘ don’t be such a pussy, romeo. are you really going to do this? to me? your own brother? just fucking come to the party. ’
honey pooled hues squeeze, grief stained cheeks painted red. o ! that’s all he sees. that red, smeared against his features, against that casket. he splits himself in two, calloused hands ripping at the lining of his stomach that embeds ‘dominic’. the trauma still weighted, his ghost clinging to opened wounded departures. hands curling against a box his parents had left behind, it shouldn’t hurt to carry ; it’s a mere assortment of rubbish. books, pictures, memories of friends he could’ve sworn he had before all this happening. the reckoning.
“ hey, do you think you could lend me a hand? ” his steel pipes heave, splinters of his brother lodged in this throat. he tastes blood. “- with the door? i need to get this shit mailed out to my parents. ” the dead boy’s shit, his dead brother’s shit. charming.
A girl once told no one should be privy to moments of private pain. That the best defense is a jutted chin and a masked smile. She bears the weight of Romeo’s loss, a chain slung on her shoulders, and if she crumbles under its enormity than at least it’s her and not him. Not a twin, the connection tied like red thread between them, not like Dominic, but a mirror image. Reflecting bright hues against dimmed hearts. She watches, though she hears her mother like a siren in her head, and it’s look sharp, Naomi. Smile wide, Naomi. Chin out, back straight. You will falter for nothing. The loss claws at her, too, unable to distance herself from what’s etched into chilled numbness. Hands find hands, stable, strong. “I think you should have used two boxes,” because if she doesn’t point of the obvious, the unsaid will swallow them whole. “The photos are going to bend.” She’s already eyed one, the three of them, a picnic and a ploy in one. ‘Bring your brother. I like looking at him.’ Bile fills shallow lungs, gulping against the open gash in her chest. Stubborn hands won’t reach for the closed door, opening a moment she feels safer sharing within walls like a fort. She pets at his hair, smoothing in, like she wishes she could the contents of the box. The grief in him. “You should have asked me to help. I’m never doing anything interesting. I could have packed.”
