Mourn-- for miles duh 8D
Mourn — I’ll write a drabble of my character mourning yours.
everything you touch turns to dust. you never should have touched him. you taint every soul you dig your fingers into. why did you think he would be any different?
because she wanted it to be different. wanted him to be different -- though she had always known it had been a bad decision, to touch him -- a selfish desire for P O W E R turned so very quickly into a realization of a M I S T A K E. a mistake so palpable it broke into her BONES to think about what she’d done ------ turned an ANGEL into a SHELL with a pretty SMILE. touched him. touched him with dirty, bloody paws that only served to make him B L E E D and make him S C R E A M and make him S U F F E R. intentional? no. but it didn’t matter.
you took something beautiful and made it rotten.
she tries to tell herself to breathe, tucked away in the corner of her flat, curled into a CROOKED BALL of beaten leather & ebony hair -- but its very hard, contorted over one’s knees, to remember to breathe. to able to. she’s hiding, in the back recesses of an empty hallway. hiding from the smell of him -- he’s permeated her entire apartment, made every inch of her home feel REAL. but he won’t be coming back to it, will never sit on her couch & smile at her for no reason ---
she’ll become a permanent fixture of the hallway soon. she’d prefer it that way. there’s BLOOD in her mouth but it isn’t her own because its his and she can’t get it out -- kissed his bloody face in RIDICULOUS ANGUISH in attempts to wake him, as foolish creatures do in denial of DEAD LOVERS.
he’s dead because of you, like you always know he would end up dead for, you & only you because you’re p o i s o n -- poisoned him with the image of slit throats & dirty men, polluted him with iron desire to avenge you now look what you’ve done. too weak to hide it from him. too weak to stop him from leaving. too weak to get out of the corner. look what you’ve done.
should anyone find her here ( after all, the door to the apartment is wide open ), a few simple words -- fit between gurgle, choked, bleeding sobs -- would be repeated in the trashed hallways -- a few simple words resonating between the smashed plates & broken chairs & ripped sheets ( because she remembers the first time she woke up to him beneath those sheets and -- )
“I’m so sorry.”
