Illias Ilïad [d4/cb1]
Dec 27, 2015 8:42:48 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Dec 27, 2015 8:42:48 GMT -5
[googlefont="Poiret One:400"]
Illias Ilïad
sixteen. male. district four.
breaker of pencil tips.
sixteen. male. district four.
breaker of pencil tips.
They say people can figure out the kind of person you are by the way you write. If that's true, I wonder what they would say about me. My long fingers grip a pencil the way you'd hold on for dear life: white-knuckled and trembling on the girlish loops that my little sister is jealous of. "You always write prettier than me," she says, chubby fingers following the carefully connected words. She smiles like my own personal sun, the steady rock in the turmoil of my confusion.
"I don't try to," I tell her, but I don't talk about my struggle elsewhere. How do you tell your sister that your romantic heart wants one thing but your mind wants another? I smile at her fondly, locking down my heart as scarred fingers play with the end of her ponytail. She climbs onto my lap and peers at my words.
"Aych... oh... em... Hom... homos... homosex-you-el," she reads from the book in front of me. With one free hand I rest my palm over the rest of the sentence, heart racing with a special kind of fear. Keira looks up at me. "What does that mean?"
"It's just a word," I say, feeling my words tremble in my throat. "It's a way of loving someone else."
"Oh." Keira snuggles into my arms. "Okay. Is that how you love Jasmine?" I close the book and hug Keira tight.
"No." My voice is weak, tight, scared. I take deep breaths and count to fifteen. One. Three. Five. Fifteen. "It's not how I love Jasmine." It's not how I love anyone. I don't. I can't. "It's a bad word. Don't use it."
"Okay," Keira says, worry in her eyes. "I love you, Illy."
I exhale: vulnerable, exposed, feeling like I've run a marathon sitting in my parent's home.
"Love you too, Ira."
"I don't try to," I tell her, but I don't talk about my struggle elsewhere. How do you tell your sister that your romantic heart wants one thing but your mind wants another? I smile at her fondly, locking down my heart as scarred fingers play with the end of her ponytail. She climbs onto my lap and peers at my words.
"Aych... oh... em... Hom... homos... homosex-you-el," she reads from the book in front of me. With one free hand I rest my palm over the rest of the sentence, heart racing with a special kind of fear. Keira looks up at me. "What does that mean?"
"It's just a word," I say, feeling my words tremble in my throat. "It's a way of loving someone else."
"Oh." Keira snuggles into my arms. "Okay. Is that how you love Jasmine?" I close the book and hug Keira tight.
"No." My voice is weak, tight, scared. I take deep breaths and count to fifteen. One. Three. Five. Fifteen. "It's not how I love Jasmine." It's not how I love anyone. I don't. I can't. "It's a bad word. Don't use it."
"Okay," Keira says, worry in her eyes. "I love you, Illy."
I exhale: vulnerable, exposed, feeling like I've run a marathon sitting in my parent's home.
"Love you too, Ira."
without losing a piece of me
how do I get to heaven?
Without changing a part of me
How do I get to heaven?
how do I get to heaven?
Without changing a part of me
How do I get to heaven?
