@dinopunched
you know you’re better than yourself. than this. than whatever you claim yourself to be. you don’t know anymore because it’s all so hard. colonel carol danvers is the other half of you and you don’t know what to do. about this, about any of it. you don’t want it. you want to send this back. you want to return it. (you can hear mother’s fucking voice now that she knows. don’t screw this up, pats. there’s a difference between you two. who knows when you’ll fizzle out. political worth? oh, baby, that’s forever.) you wish it was anyone else. somebody you couldn’t hurt. somebody she isn’t going to hurt.
but she wants to protect you. and you (love) fucking hate that. you feel like you’re not worth this, whatever this is. you feel like this in a pair of huge fendi sunglasses to hide the fact that you’re fucked u. and maybe you’re not fucked up, fucked up, but you’re still fucked up. you’re actually sober enough you could walk an entire straight line (maybe). and she’s not so bad when she’s not a piece of shit prick disaster and sometimes she even lets you dress her. (those shoulders fill the fuck out of a suit, and mmm, even you can admit, those dress blues are something. you don’t know what the fuck it is. you don’t like girls. you don’t. your mother knows you don’t like girls and you don’t--)
"oh!”
it’s a fast thing, right out of your mouth. the part of your brain that’s scared tells you to flee, but the part of your brain that says wonder woman, what would wonder woman do? lurches forward and you’re fucking stupid and, like, you think, maybe, maybe you’ll just fucking die-- you see it on her face and that bright glint of those fists and you’re like maybe you’ll fucking die and that would be so much goddamn easier you’ll just fucking die you’ll--
down. down you go. oh, that’s not, like, really unfamiliar. the way your knees crack. and you’ve been delusional but your back hurts, your shoulders feel bigger, and it’s not super surprising that the fashion district’s big weird button statue is coming down but it is, has, and your hands are under it and you’re literally panicking-- you’re totally losing it. your hands are shaking but they’re holding this thing up and there’s people next to you just under this big fucking what the fuck is this granite or stone or what the fuck the fuck the fuck the fuck this is the fuck--
the hot feeling’s up along your spine again. oh god, it’s like coke, but times thirty. and you’re still on your knees. you’re so goddamn tall you’re pushing and it’s enough. there’s cameras clicking, you hear them, but you only hear them. there’s no other noises. click click CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICKclickCliCKCLICK--
fuck the age of technology. fuck fuck fuck fuck it, fuck it. these little broad daylight flashes and they shouldn’t look like they do but you had a friend who had glowing stars on her ceiling when you were tiny and all these flashes look like those did in the dark but burning and it’s hard for you to focus because you can’t, and your arms hurt, and your shoulders ache, and your body’s cracking under the weight and you don’t know how you’re holding this up but you can’t push up any further, can’t get off your knees, and it’s so fucking cliche but you can only see one person in front of you and say one name--
“carol.” smaller now. itty bitty. “carol. help. carol help. c-c-c-carol. carol. carolhelp--”
