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Now, you see, the thing with a person like PrinceZam is—
folding in on herself, breathe in even though it is incredibly difficult to so much as think, a choir of voices who tell her this and that and oh, this too —
Now, you see, the thing with a person like PrinceZam is that she is a relentless type of person, he knows not when to quit, when things are too difficult; these things do not register as stopping points. No, rather—
Don't look too long at your lack of hearts, those are just– in the way. Most things are in the way. Like all these people telling her to move on, like that's gonna help. See, this is just how he works. Spiral like it means anything, die like it changes anything: won't prove or show a thing to him!
Back to the person breaking TNT like she is hopeless, and she really is.
The choir of voices asks her what she's up to but, why explain? Why do anything? The choir of voices echo in on themselves, fear, fear bubbling up, but they're not—
important.
Not—
meaningful , like things should be, is there meaning?
The choir of voices is loud, boiling up just like the feelings churning and churning in her stomach and close to breaking out of him. The choir of voices whisper after each other, scared of something— well, that's the audience for you.
Easy to please, easier to displease, and they want the best for her.
There is no best for PrinceZam, but it's fine. It's fine.
They can choose to believe in happy endings, but not her. She knew this long ago, how'd she happen to forget? Any relations with her will always, always end in someone getting hurt. The people she love will always be hurt by her, and—
how is she supposed to fix that?
The person putting TNT in her inventory with loss on her mind. The person with shaking hands and unsteady footing. What can she even do? What can anyone do? There are no happy endings, there's nothing, and maybe she has people but–
but they aren't—
…
Come to in flashes of light. Did you burn yourself on your fireworks? You shouldn't be so clumsy.
Stumble atop the watchtower, but don't stumble like you mean it. This is theatrics.
Breathe in, breathe in, deeply. Try to picture yourself anywhere else, try to picture that things are okay, and it's not, but everything's fine– your hands are shaking, shaky, shaking.
The girl with loss on her mind, the knight of flowers; will you pull the trigger? And the voices crescendo, shrieking and begging her, see, this is not going to help, don't you know, and haven't you learned, PrinceZam—
but.
Having tried everything this season, and knowing now it does not work out, can't work out even if you grovel, grovel, on your knees— or even if you give yourself up willingly, or if you hold steadfast to so-called morals—
But—
and, see, it's much, much easier to fall back on the things you know better.
No such thing as just , it takes a moment to reach your ears. Was there any meaning to this? Get you anywhere? No, it's stupid, it's dumb, but now it's actualized. Do it again. The audience turns to look at you.
Eyes burning into you.
Rings in your ears. Ringing and ringing and ringing.
See, you've learned— you just don't care. Not now. Not right now, when everything inside you burns and you need something else to burn with you. Because you're the type of person to hurt everything you so much as touch.
Even the things you put so, so much of yourself into; burn it into memory, this is destruction, purposeless, directionless. And you know destruction just as well as you do creation, if not better.
It's so, so stupid. Doing something like this, for nothing at all…
It is—
crashing down on you like the weight of the world.
This is theatrics. Light it up, and watch as the things you love burn at your hands. Nothing's new , on and on. On. And on. And on.
You play the same role over and over and over and it's burning and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns and it burns —
Debris and ashes. And blood. Got too close. Got too curious , stepped into radius. Burns.
Fill in that void inside you.
The audience is hushed now, not even whispers, but maybe it's in your head. The audience does this sometimes. Snap out of existence for a moment, just one, now two, now three.
Go again!
You're scared.
Of yourself, you realize. And you should've changed, should've known you had to if you wanted to keep anyone you loved, wanted to protect anyone, really, or was it all for yourself?
You're a terribly selfish person.
(Atop the nether roof. Stand alone. Don't bare yourself.)
(Your hands stained in yellow ink and red ink and you're curled up on the ground.)
Snap out of it.
Boom!
There it goes!
Everything you ever loved!
Nothing's saving you, huh?
You're stained in your own blood and y'know what, that's– that's fine , choke on your own laughter and something else. Cough and choke on it and laugh and cry. You gave in and it tasted like ashes and blood and dirt on your hands.
PrinceZam blew up.
Wake up and look at your hands and break.
You gave in and it tasted like salt rubbed in the wound.
You gave in and it tasted like you just don't change.
You gave in and it tasted like instigation.
You gave in and it tasted like blood in your mouth.
You gave in and it tasted like there's a difference, right.
You gave in and it tasted like—
(you can't even explain it, you can't even—
it was what, pity—)
like you don't get it, don't understand.