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Burn, it should all fall into a heap of charcoal. It should be lit bright, as blue as his tips. If only it could be turned to dust, maybe he could leave it like it's worth nothing; because it should be. All of it is repulsive garbage, unfortunately not insignificant. What would he be if not for it.
Every sickening creature has embedded itself into his roots, marking their claim without realizing. Neighborhood sneers, angry cashiers, the patchy TV screen of someone who shares his face but not his name. Their existence could be written off, without ever having the hold they do now. But where was the time for that? All his life of not having one has made for a fight no-one else would ever understand.
Perhaps he can find purpose in being nothing rather than believing he's nothing. Oh, how his other half craves that; for growth in the sun's direction. As present as it is, the sun isn't fueling him; it might seem like he's yearning for it, yet that's only an illusion. In reality, It's the concrete that he's been subjected to sprout from that's forced him to face the scorching beams.
No one will know, if they did some digging maybe, but who cares enough for that? Of course, that's an ignorant question. The answer's always been the same whether he likes it or not. That stray he picked up practically fastened its own collar. Since the second he liberated it from doom, it's been insistently at his heel, following, obeying, comforting though annoying. A shadow that trails dutifully. It's so ugly that he can't stop looking. So ugly that he throws knives into it's heart. So so ugly that he takes each cut and soothes it, preparing it for the next tear. Both actions release some sort of dopamine. Call it what you want, but it's the most he's ever felt for someone.
Nearly three years, and he can't seem to escape the other's hold on his soul. Even when he withdraws himself, there's no place he won't still be followed devotedly. Or maybe it isn't following; maybe that's only how it's represented. It appears as following when one is leading and the other is behind, yet the leader is only able to run thanks to the follower tying his laces. If there is a pause for this action of preparation, then the former is more akin to a navigator while the latter is the ship hand.
Neither is truly the captain for they receive equal benefit; not in money but symbiosis. When the navigator flails, lost at sea, the deck hand uses his ability to read the stars. The twinkling that's always been there but only he can decipher due to their whimsical property.
He is the moon after all- he speaks for the stars, sees their worries, reads their constellations as though they're words from a novel. The moon is forgotten, its efforts unnoticed. The strength to pull waves and stable the axis of his ship. He might as well be Gaia, nurturing his home as chaotic as it is. Sometimes it hurts when thunderstorms roar, in a good way, makes him work for calm seas. What kind of hand would he be if tossed off by the expected waves?
Past all the analogies, nothing can be done now; nothing that will change what's been established. Symbiosis, sadism, friendship, the label doesn't matter. Blue roses aren't natural, only possible through the presence of magic, which is an unnatural purple.