* 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 @rvmances !
🍇 : 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱 ?
he wouldn’t. know that one tweet floating around : ❝ next time i’m opening up to someone is my autopsy ❞ ? yessir. from a facile standpoint however, he’d describe it as normal simply because he doesn’t know anything else. for fun, he might even tell you different versions of his childhood. his father was an indie rockstar, roving from city to city & surviving off pills & potions conjured by groupies & fans until starlit eyes landed on his mother, blonde hair teased & crowded in southern jewels. another about a daredevil matriarch who rattled crowds as she did high wire acts, falling in love with a replacement when her partner was injured. no story was ever the same. nor were they even remotely believable given the circumstances, but they ate it up anyway. everytime. spilling trust on a dream they could never have. history told by others makes him wonder for a moment. cocking his head ; dizzy by the imagery of love. disfigured memories with a set jaw. his father’s cold trembling fingers & lines of his mother’s regretful eyes as she stares at her last born. a story that would provoke pity. the shit he hated the most. why would they want to hear about that ? his mom ? a pathetic, coinless star that refused to give up her child. a charming story ? no. far from it. wondering if she could gain back the fame she never had by grooming him into becoming a child model. letting strangers squeeze his cheeks & coo with compliments. how pretty he’d be when he was older. spoiler : it didn’t work. maybe it was his temper. maybe they were lying after all. or perhaps it was the way he scratched & kicked at his mother every time she came near. the way he curled in on himself when the men she brought home would have second thoughts on who they saw as a plaything that night. fuck that. he’ll stick with the legends & the myths.
🍇 : 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁 ?
from a young start lucky was introduced to the idea of intimacy. negative & the like. fetishization of gaining privileges & gifts from exchanging his body has lead him to the idea of selling himself for cash. aside from being one of cape coral’s brightest pupils & a full - time garage mechanic, he is a part - time escort in order to lessen the blows of monthly bills. no one knows of this nightly pursuit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he goes out of his way to hide it. in fact, if you ask about it he’ll answer with a casual yeah. whether or not you agree with the choice is no concern to him. devaluing sex workers just marks you as a person he’d cut contact with. there was a point in time where he snapped at anyone who laid a hand on him. these days he lets just about anyone touch him.
🍇 : 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 & 𝘄𝗵𝘆 ?
the day he matured was the day he ripped his father’s hands off the collar of his shirt, spittle flying from blue tongue. a rabid dog barking command in turn. pay what he was owed or get the fuck out. financing by your own stretch takes up time you could’ve spent on your studies. no other responsibilities to focus on but making ends meet with an older sister that disappeared in the night & threw rocks through tattered curtains in the morning for you to distract your father. your house. not a home. nor would it ever be. that kind of thinking allowed your father to wrap burly digits around your throat, hiking you up until the tips of your feet left a lovetap at his chin. the lines of black ink that spiral along the expanse of your neck at twenty - one covers bruising prints that you swore would stay like a second skin. it was time to grow the fuck up. fueling your father’s narcotic addiction was no longer your primary concern. he was thirteen.
🍇 : 𝗱𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗼 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱, 𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱 ?
he’s embraced where he is now. doesn’t have much but he has a spirit that can’t be broken. too stubborn & prideful to let anything stop him. if you’re in the way you will be stepped upon. a kick of dirt in the face for good measure. for even thinking about getting in the way. maybe he misses the shrill lullaby his mother would croon in the middle of the night. a siren song to the life she once lived. crowded into the corner of the living room with knees tucked as the heater coughs it’s very last breath, cloud of haze leaving his lips as he watches her move past him in a careless dance.
