Apologetic Reperations

August 20, 2016
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Air promenades in a rather somnolent stance, filling empty grasps with a little warmth while orange blemishes gently subside from restless giants above. I waiver, hands against the wall, staring down the blur that’s manifested through existence. It’s finally washed over by cyan waves, eluding my wandering mind. Day vanquishes the pale flickers of dawn. I have been on this road before, your stirring whispers seeping through. They force me to rub the bruises I’ve already memorised.

On the little table, a thin piece of paper lies. Picking it up, I can’t help but notice the dents and fold in places, only I would try pursuing for imperfections. Gnawing at my pencil, a gift that you gave to me. Another one. I glance to the tainted photograph of you that I plated onto my best fame. Brought down by the wind, again. The allure of it becomes a new intrusion to an already seemingly unfeasible task. I glare at the same smile and your familiar hair. Eyes that are an uncanny familiarity, I bury away. Let’s be honest, I never open the windows anyway.

Do you remember when I asked you to hold my hand? I do. Do you remember when I ran away from home and you didn’t come find me? Well, I do. I bathed in worn waters, ‘cause you never let the tap flow. Soaked in the grime as sweat curled up and down my naked body. Trained not to flinch, you made me an angelic masquerade. Thank you, that’s what I’m supposed to say.  

I’m sorry I pointed out your jacket was lapis lazuli. I could never be the kind of child you yearned for. You made me praise him, then I began to abhor him. If he hates ‘people like you,’ then why did he create me? Now I know. But he’s not the one doing the punishing.

You like to make scars so you can poke at them again.
You like to go to bars, to teach me anxiety.

Those lessons are starting to get awfully tedious. You can stop now, I’ve learnt. Somewhere, something went wrong. Ever since you were kissed by those glassy drops, you refuse me breath, bind it in elastic chains. I’m sorry, I’m not really sorry that I ignore you when you call. Broken, so tenderly, I can’t even find the pieces that were there in the first place. I scratched you out an eon ago. What do you still want from me? Why do you keep haunting me? Daddy ol’ dear, I’m sorry to say; I hate you.

All of this is on the table, none of it actually spoken. The plane is bare besides a circular blotch near the edge. It reminds me of a teardrop that fell once upon a time, onto the granite. The silent tear that animated the roses I bought from the store next-door labeled, ‘wishing you the best in the next one.’

I’m just trying to soak up the blood.

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