outlaw. d6. fin

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

victoire hazeltine. sixteen. blackwater orphanage.

i'm my own best friend
and my worst enemy
and if we both caught fire
well there wouldn't be much left to see

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

[presto]

xxx

[/presto]

I'm

not sure if forgiveness comes
easy to things made from nature —
a force unimpeded by the
softening hammer of human hands.

My

organs tell me NO, FUCK YOU —
stuffed with saltpetre, charcoal,
howling with storms — they scream
no apologies for their fire. And if my

own

heart says yes, weeps fucking
rivers in its certainty, then I have never
heard its muffled cries over the sound of a war
I have learned to trust

best,

that I have known in myself
longest. Earthquakes, floods,
typhoons: they are never sorry. We aren't
supposed to forgive; grace is not a

friend

to us in the way I used to believe.
Pardon is built from plastics, silicone
bilayers and band aid tapes. Lost in the
peeling faith placed in Ripred.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

[presto][/presto]

Motherless is where we are,
between walls scribbled with
curses: painted. defaced. and
painted again. (repeat.) My brother

and

sister find themselves behind
a closed bedroom door,
fucking, crying — we all have
our ways for lighting infernos at
the summit of a spine. And I find

my

light in back alleys and dead
ends — an outlaw of masks and
spray cans and balled-up fists,
of choking on the same words over
and over again — breathing in and
out, steady and slow to inhale the

worst

of these chemicals; steady and slow to
scream back mouthfuls of FUCK YOU
FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU
FUCK THE CAPITOL, hands shaking
echoes to these words. Rotten is where
we are, buried in little boxes open
to death — decaying delicately for the

enemy

to see. And they left us here to be
opened and inspected for matches left
by our mother and father. (But fires
are not inherited warmth. Embers are
from sticks and stones, broken bones,
lost in the cold — mine, mine, mine.)
I'm dying in here; they're killing us
in here. Our execution is in here.

                              I'm screaming.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

☾

People say I'm not very nice,
and they say it like it's something
unexpected, spitting variations
of the same words while caught
exposed between my teeth,

and

I want to tell them YES THAT'S
THE POINT, FUCKER. I AM NOT
VERY NICE. I don't understand
why this is so surprising, why my
default is to be forgiving. (forgotten.)

If

I'm not dangling their tied tether
over the flame of a lighter, flicked ablaze
with the threat to burn, then people
think of my name, Victoire, and they
think of Hazeltine as all the same.

We

are two clashing things in one body.
Something to pity — thin and pale,
demure in stature, watery eyes — an
orphan with(out) treasonous parents,
an orphan in Blackwater for death:

both

of us are aligned to the same
fate. But one of us is still screaming,
angry not sad, not tragic, not desolate,
not forgotten, not to be brushed away with
authority demanding forgiveness. I'm

caught

in the catastrophe of havoc, caught in
knowing FUCK YOU, FUCK THE
CAPITOL. I have hands that can break
things, hands that can make them remember
— let them know my lungs still breathe

fire.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

[presto]

xxx

[/presto]

Well

-ing up in interstices, fingerprints dipped
in red — it's broken — and my hands
fucking hurt. There is the glitter of glass
dust sliding underneath skin, and

there

is the roughness of mineral grains, bricks
grinding into muscles when I curl my
fingers into fists. I can tell myself that
I AM ANGRY at everything — but that

wouldn't

fix the things still in pieces. And I can
tell myself IT FEELS GOOD, IT DOES.
But it doesn't. It doesn't. It doesn't, and
I am graceless. I am not meant to

be

calm when I have been a fucking storm
for so long. It doesn't. I am angry. but
I need it. Blood pools at my knuckles
but I can't let go. My hands hurt

much

less than the ache plastered against the
back of my throat. I swallow, but the
soreness doesn't relent. I swallow, but
I can taste tears — warm, whole,

left

untouched. Everything else cupped in my
palms stays splintered, irreparable. graceless,
my hands could never put things back
together. And I could say, no, it's better

to

leave it broken, staring at the paths that
lie tattered at my feet. There's no mend for the
threads I have ripped out years ago, (repeat.
repeat,) SO LEAVE IT BROKEN. And I could

see

all the roads that I have made this way,
feel sure of what I've done. But my hands hurt,
(it doesn't. i'm angry. i need it.) and
i don't want this. I DON'T WANT THIS

                   (i want my mother,
                                            my father.
                                                          i'm sorry.)

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

this bio gets increasingly more ratchet tbh but it's done ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
annnd avalon gets dibs <3

[Avalon]

mmm this is absolutely beautiful <33