the constellations in me;

e.r. sometimes i write things.

[soulinferno]

who hurt you, babe? he whispers as the cold metal is pressed against my chest, my heart more still than it had ever been before. who hurt you? he repeats, but my lips are dry and pressed together as if i'd never uttered a single word. he presses on, the blade now ripping the button out of my shirt, as if warning me to just give in. here we are, my body melting into his as we stand in the quiet room, and his devilish grin shouldn't be so easy to fall for. he wants me to say the words, but my mouth is clammed up and there is nothing in this world that i'd rather do less and so, i let my heart syncopate with the rhythm of the buttons being ripped out of my shirt, and then i stop. time, space, him. i hurt myself, i say, because i hoped for more than i was ever given. he looks at me as if he sees a different person. my hand takes the knife out of his grasp. he brands my lips with the stain of him, because he knows i'm empty. i'm the one holding the blade now. and the universe agrees.

when she’s empty, e.r.

[soulinferno]

day 1. it's a melody of a fairy tale when they are strangers who meet in a crash course collision on an empty street. she's fuming and her eyes glister with vexation but he apologizes and that startles her. was anyone ever so polite before? day 10. his curiosity gets the best of him and although she's a hard nut to crack, he spots her again. she's drunk on fame that she feels she deserves and her ego fills up the room until no one can breathe anymore. he startles her once more. was anyone so stubborn before? day 30. she sits behind, arms looped around his waist as he whispers silly jokes to her. the city flies past them lost in their laughter and she doesn't know how to admit that she resents him. for all he is, for all he has, for all he holds dear to him. was anyone ever so conflicted? day 45. he knows everything and he's still there, roots spread around her so that she can't let go. she's a quitter when it comes to these things and he knows her too well to let her go just like that. she wonders how did it happen. was she ever so confused? day 55. her head is spinning and her ears are bleeding and her eyes are watering and she can't breathe. she swallows the ashes in the air while crawling. crawling over blood and glass but her mind is elsewhere. he wonders if she'll make it and he's not there to help her. was he ever so helpless? day 70. it's spring and everything smells like death and he's choking on his guilt and rage. she seems not to care, she says she just wants her fun and he just wants to pull a shade over his eyes and be someone else. she arrives and he unleashes the monster within him and she starts an avalanche of her own and suddenly it's war. were they ever so honest? day 75. it's pitch black and empty and gloomy and void and there's nothing in the world. day 100. he is holding her hand, fingers intertwined with hers as if he's holding his solace in between his fingers. she never felt so secure with anyone and she can't help but wonder -- is this how love feels like? she's sunshine and he's safety but they know they're a tornado and an earthquake but her hand in his never felt so right before. were they a natural disaster or just natural?

how to love a disaster, e.r.

[soulinferno]

this is a story about a boy. his chest is metal and his fists are iron his will is the dynamite in the making. his stealthiness is like a wall covering him in all directions; he could move a mountain with one hand. on the inside, however, it's another story. he takes a breath and it smells like guilt he swallows a bullet and it feels like candy. he wants to be a shield that shelters everyone around him but the shield is like a muscle; you pull too hard and the pain creeps in. but he's used to the pain. the anguish is a dear, dearest companion-- he wraps his arms around it and greets it like an old friend. this is a story about a girl. her chest is a ticking bomb and her hands are bruised her body is supposed to be a temple but no one has taught her that. her will is not her own; she doesn't know it, she travels where others tell her to. her fervor is real but she still shelters herself from all directions; she could kill you with one look and you'd like it. on the inside, however, it's another story. she dreams of heaven and wakes up to hell she takes a hit and it feels like love. she wants them to look upon her as a goddess but being a goddess means control; she spirals out of it every time her emotions erupt. but she's used to the lava. the burning of her skin feels like flowers blossoming-- it's spring and if it stings then it's familiar and we're all allergic to something. it takes him one glance at her and he knows he's trapped. the stone cold shackles pull his hands behind his back when he grasps for her (and why?) he couldn't tell you. he inhales her presence like a a breeze of fresh air after a long day but the charcoal in his throat won't let him say the things he wants to say. it takes her one glance at him and she knows she's all in. the veins over her heart burst at the seams when she thinks of him (and why?) she couldn't tell you. she soaks in his presence as if he were the only light she knows but the dread in her stomach won't let her say the things she wants to say. (the bullet in his chest reminds him that it is time to die, but he can't die without whispering love in between her lips.)

when ‘will they or won’t they‘ aches, e.r.

[soulinferno]

it began with a story. at first they drank the ambrosia and ate the forbidden apples they aimed for the core with their thunderbolts and cleansed the grounds to their liking it wasn't enough. the puppeteers descended to play and frolic with the ones they themselves made lurking from the shadows but still pulling all the strings still not enough. masks over their eyes and blindfolds over humanity, taking turns: Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar, Napoleon or Gandhi, Richard the Lionheart or perhaps Richard the Third? they're trying. not hard enough, building an obscure tower that leads to nowhere suddenly tongue-tied they can't decipher the words and the tower crumbles to pieces (they plunged through the air) nip at the bud. they graced them with an apocalypse and when it transpired they took the reigns either you're with them or against them: the choice was simple and all the hail mary's couldn't help them now. how will it end? stirring the pot and letting it simmer, tilting at the windmills they're so small, yet so greedy, so deficient yet so boastful. starting a war they can't end, they will never be ready.

Rebirth of a Legend, e.r.

[soulinferno]

there are ashes surrounding the skin of her eyes and stretch marks covering lips in a well known pattern and her skin blossoms with color: purple, green, yellow. until she forgets or get used to it. strands of her hair resemble sunshine on a winter morning; nippy but golden lifeless but promising. and the dirt under her nails feels like home. (but does she have one?) she looks at the towering mountain before her and the hollowness of her chest aches with starvation why does it always seem so much higher? it’s the ticking bomb in her head and her stomach that exploded leaving shrapnel in the walls of her soul her eyes are void of all emotion that isn’t rage and revenge and the helplessness they took roots in her veins and flooded the body and so they fuel her like love could never (does she remember what love is?) and her knees want to crack under pressure but her sanity won’t let her succumb to her alienation the language in the distance is foreign but calls for war and war is the only language that she needs to understand and so she is the first one to get up in arms. these are not the dragons from the stories these are the dragons with guns, looking for coup de grâce she's learned all the steps to this dance quicker than most the battlefield feels warm and humid with blood and peril never smelled so good before.

e.r.