(Source: uncuts, via thewheelinthesky)
The moon watches you helplessly, her tears making the stars flicker like streetlights in a horror film. She tugs on the shackles around your ankles and pleads “Don’t do this, don’t do this” but her words can’t penetrate this unholy atmosphere and there’s dirt falling from your palms.
You’re a dog, digging up a bone and a laugh, cracked like a mirror, falls out of your mouth at the irony. And you’re digging her up, digging her up, because she’s got to be suffocating beneath the earth. Has to be choking on mud as she opens her mouth to laugh at a joke your father had once told and your fingers claw at the ground trying to reach your sister, trying to reach the last twig of the family tree you chopped down.
“What are you doing? What are you doing? Stop!” It’s a boy that smells like ghosts and medicine and he’s tugging on you, trying to heave you out of the grave that you’d put her in - that you’re trying to pull her out from.
“Don’t do this!” the boy cries to you and the moon begs you to listen. He’s hauling you out now, this fragile boned boy, and he’s trying to hold onto you but you let out a howl that ricochets through the moon’s craters and makes her tremble in the sky. You do not want this boy who smells nothing like home. But home is charred wood and cindered skin. You are the king of flames and you can’t take this matchstick crown, like a ring of thorns, off your head.
“You are here. You are here.” The boy’s words whip you fierce and you want to tell him that today is your sister’s birthday and they don’t serve cakes to caskets and your mother had loved you and your brother had tossed baseballs to you across halcyon fields.
“Yes, I am here. But they are there. Don’t you understand?” you want to say, but your lungs are ash and your body is burning to the ground and this stupid heart of yours is behaving like a fire alarm that’s too little too late.
And the boy says…the boy says,”I’m here, and you’re here, and I’m not going anywhere.” And he will not let you build yourself a coffin. You gasp for air but you’re not gasping through dirt and the boy assures the moon that you will be fine.
Written by: wolfsbanepunch
(via ahaleofanalpha)
okay, so I made Carlos pretty…
