Work Text:
𝑺𝒂𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆.
I don't know, maybe fix your prayers.
Some stuff ain't good for you,
ㅤㅤyou know that.
Some beats just gonna make your head
ㅤㅤexplode.
YOU know better.
[Roomshaker, earthquaker,
annihilator, forever favor.]
i. In my head, your words came with a raspy voice, like one that is soft and quiet, yet also thundering, deafening. In my head, I wonder how your vocal cords could still make any sound, with those battered strings and that secondhand smoke, and a secondhand thread in a secondhand bed with that second man's head. In my head, I wonder how you're still alive. A metric ton of cigarettes and inhumane amount of gin for breakfast. Maybe it has something to do with the number of deaths one person could ever experience, because even if one day you're buried six feet under (for heaven's sakes!), you'll live on in my mind for another 2030 years.
ii. The fact is, the funny thing is: you never call me by my name. It's always some variation of something, anything. Never one that makes any sense, always one that is temporary. Hardly ever one that lingers, like borrowed time, like a morsel in a shark's mouth. God, you don't know how difficult it is. You don't understand the feeling of missing something you never had.
iii.a. There's a problem with the hinges of the door to your office. You should get them fixed because it's getting hard to open the door without making any noise, but you won't. You never wanted to. It's simple; even I can do it with some nails or whatever, but you won't. You never wanted to.
iii.b. You once said you can tell a person by how they walk through that door. Because anyone would just open it, but you said I wouldn't. You said I'd lift it up just a bit so it wouldn't make any noise. That's why you never looked up from your desk if the door didn't scratch through the floor. You said I'm one of those desperate hands that's always trying to mend things, always cleaning and preparing their weapons. Again, you don't make sense. This doesn't make sense. My nerves are turned on, and I can feel them strumming like instruments. My question for you is, is this some kind of attentiveness or a weird kind of apathy?
iv. My six eyes tell me that you're made from my ribs, but my soul knows otherwise. Answer me, who are you? Tomorrow morning, when you look into the bathroom mirror, only my face will stare back at you. You'll ask the same question too. I see too much of myself in you, and yet not at all. There's everything and nothing. In the dominion of people, among everyone in the world, you stand alone as the body of a wounded god with a gaping hole that will never close. No matter how hard I try to fill it, there will always be some hum lost beneath the symphonies.
v. Seven is the lucky number, but I'll close it at five. I don't make sense, neither do you, and I guess the screaming, the constant bell ringing, and the infuriating attempts to escape from our lives have ruined our minds. There's always next weekend and the one after that, but one of us must be wiser than this. There are occasions when you allow yourself to enjoy something to the point of having it more than what is good for you, but we made our mistake by doing it tonight. I smoke too much. I love too much. My throat hurts, and I'm going to throw up.