i see ➸ frances&lucy

[Deleted]

"FROM WHAT I'VE TASTED OF DESIRE

I HOLD WITH THOSE WHO FAVOR FIRE."

It's better, here. 

Fingers crossed into the dirt with my back to the tree, my right hand, and I breathe easy. Eyes locked on the early showing stars in four p.m. atmosphere. It's better here, it's better alone, where I can be and be and never not be as I raise my left hand and the joint to my lips. I cross an x on my heart with smoke in my lungs, and I cough after exhaling - I am the dragon. And sometimes, being alone is really the only emotion I like to feel. 

Not like Jequirity, maybe like Jequirity - I don't know yet. 

I scratch my chin, the afternoon's crisp air in my lungs laced with nicotine; I don't know if I want to be buried alone. And I don't know why I like being alone. A part of me has felt nothing but it, a part of me is missing in the form of a sister, crossing a single word into my still beating heart; Jasmine. The letters never made it, I like to think. Somewhere a part of me wants to know that she never got the letters, that she isn't twelve years worth of bitterness and maybe she'll somehow get a life better than mine; it's the other half of me that thinks being alone isn't the only emotion I should feel. 

Fuck it. I don't want to feel, my lips around the blunt again as my right hand burrows itself into the ground - I'm Frances motherfucking- something. A last name means too much to be given away, and I've never really cared enough to hold onto one. There's too much power in it, the words Vieuxpointe and Eckhart on my neck like tattoos or pendants and I've never had anything to give back to them, so maybe Frances something is the best thing to call me. 

Teeth bite loosely on my left knuckle and my right hand presses into the dirt, sketching a small nose and buck teeth and closed eyes and freckles. She had freckles, just like me. Her face was skinnier than mine, her cheeks peppered with ginger constellations and we used to sharpie the lines together as we held left hands and she was my sister before the house burned down and we shed last nights and names like snakes - I miss her. No, I don't. At some point you've got to know when to erase, but I never can, lining small shoulders and a skinny neck around the word Jasmine, a portrait to the sand of a girl I lost. 

I cross an x on my heart - "hoping to die."

And I rub my cheeks, pulling the skin of my eye bag flat, I know I need to forget, to forgive and forget but my hair's a frenzy in the shape of a lioness and I can't have regrets. Regrets drown you, and I have enough going against me as it is as I fill my lungs again and burn the cigarette into the ground's portrait. My hand pushes against my knee to get me off the ground and cough into a closed fist, sometimes feeling alone is better than feeling nothing I guess.  

Immediately, I want to fall back down, the weight of living in the pit of my stomach and I kick the dirt, the portrait of my sister covered by violent strides screaming "fuck you!" on repeat - I don't want to feel fucking alone. I want to feel fucking whole, I want to feel like I matter to some exist and I want to scream and I scream and I want to rip my throat, because Frances motherfucking something wants to matter, and I cock my elbow and punch the tree behind me with the crack of my knuckles and shock sets on my face.

"FUCK-" grabbing my scabbed knuckles - "son of a fuckin, god," rubbing my fists. Fuck. I slide back down the tree, my barefeet creating two lines in the ground. A half of me constantly wants to feel alone, while the other half of me just wants to be. Be something, be Frances, be alive, just feel something more than empty but I hold my own hand in a forest of quiet things.

It's better here anyways.

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

"and the world shatters around me, piece by piece, life by life"

and the u n i o n is carved
from stone that is not to be halved
and the imprints of blood
call this l o v e

One word.


One word and I can feel my world crashing down a around me. A single word. A single name. Jequirity and the world shatters around me, piece by piece, life by life. And it will take way too much effort to try and put me back together again. I sit there drawing, trying to think of anything but her, but the room around slowly becomes smaller, encasing me inside. My breathing becomes shallow and my legs become stiff. The pencil falls from my hands, and hits the ground, echoing in the silence. I know I have to leave, before I'm suffocated. My legs get up without another thought. And before I know it they're racing. Racing out of the house, and
down the street.

Racing away from the thought of her.

My feet carry me to unknown place. Nameless people rushing past me in a blur. My mind races, but no actual thought seems to cross it. I let instinct guide my way, not caring where I end up. The breezes whips my hair and dries the hot tears that silently stream down my face almost instantly. It's not long before my breath returns and my mind slows down. And my tears seem to stay dry for good. I promise myself that those will be the last. Because I am not weak.

Because I cannot afford to cry.

I stop where I am and regain my composure. How childish of me to flee, how childish of me to try and run from my problems, to run from my fears. The realization of my foolishness hits me, and I can't help but feel ashamed. It's something she would never do, something she would never want us to do. I'm about to turn back, shame taking its toll on my body. The wind still blows and on it carries a voice, one that's screaming, one that seems to be angry, to be in pain. It's one that I know. Not a second hesitation and I'm off screaming. "Frances," Fearing the absolute worst. "Frances please,"

Knowing that the worst always seems to happen to me.

I move faster than I knew I could, letting the sound of her voice guide my way. All the possibilities of what was wrong running through my head, of how I could be too late. Because Ripred knows I've been late too many times before. I see her figure sitting there, her blonde hair flying around her face, her chest rising and falling. Alive. A wave of relief crashes over me. "Frances," I mutter, my breath shallow, hands on my knees, trying to regain feeling in my legs. My eyes flash to the blunt laying on the ground. A sigh escapes my lips. "You know how I feel about this. What it does to me, what it does to you. How dangerous it can be, and," my mind races and words spill out of my mouth. My breath catches in my throat and I'm finally able to stop my tangent. But the thoughts still cross my mind.

Thoughts of what could have been.


"Holy shit Frances," the fears finally subside, and reality finds its way back to me. I sit across from her, legs folded, just staring. I spot the ring of blood growing on her hand. I'm tempted to reach out, to wipe it away, but I keep my hands folded in my lap. "Why would you...", my voice plays, not wanting to pry, not sure what she wanted. "You can always," my words are failing me, for the first time in a long time, and I feel lost. "Can you please not," and I don't want to tell her what to do, but I wish I could. I wish I could keep her safe. I wish I could protect her. Finally protect someone, unlike the people I've failed before. "Just...please,"

One word.

and i join you in your walls
we realize our own f a u l t s
and as h e a r t s we go, we go
humbled, oh

. . .

lyrics: "union stone" by phildel.

[Deleted]

"FROM WHAT I'VE TASTED OF DESIRE

I HOLD WITH THOSE WHO FAVOR FIRE."

Burning alive I guess I've always liked better than breathing dry. Hell, it's been apart of my life like a cosmic fucking joke, the ebb and flow of hair made of flames, a house incinerated and an arsonist's vocab; they ask me why I'm a cunt well I guess it's just how I survive in this damn pit. The immolation of a sea witch. My hand is shaking from bruising knuckles - I guess not even the one thing that works to keep me functioning wants to live like this. Something's gotta change, Frances, I don't hear it in my own voice and I bury my head in my lap. 

(Is it me?) 

Maybe I'm the fucking problem, just one giant mess of a problem; I'm not an Eckhart but I can't be a Vieuxpointe anymore and I'm just a walking paradox aren't I? An earthly anomaly that isn't meant to exist, and through the pounding of my hand I grit a smile into my own thighs, my forehead pressed to my knees. Just by existing I'm a one man rebellion. Just by continuing to be skin and muscle, Frances motherfucking Something might actually drag hell itself through holy waters. The newborn spring's first wind makes me shudder, whispering echoes in my ears.

("Frances,") 

I don't look up at first, whispering "wassup" into my thighs. They're in my domain, my motif and I may not mean shit anywhere else but the woods might as well be the one place I find sacrilegious enough to be mine. And I look up, tattered with hair as disheveled as a lion's mane; we don't make eye contact, for I am the czar and she is the alien messager. She stares at the bent blunt on the ground and sighs and I whisper a solemn swear as my kingdom falls. 

"You know how I feel about this. What it does to me, what it does to you. How dangerous it can be, and," and I almost laugh, how she feels? Why does that matter, in the dreamscape of my fucking terrain why are my emotions still assumed lower than everybody else's? I'm goddamn Frances fucking something and I can't even smoke on my own fucking domain without upsetting somebody, but to hell with it - when have emotions mattered much in this fire anyways. 

They burn just the same. 

I bite and looking down with a half assed grin at my aching hand, "holy shit Frances." Some holy shit alright - "why would you," and I make eye contact. "You can always," why the hell is she here? 

"Can you please not, just," I hold my hand tighter, what? 

"Please."

I choke on the sympathy. 

"Please not what?" My eyebrows furred, what the fuck does she mean? "Don't what, feel shit? What, is that some fucking Eckhart thing, I'm not allowed to get pissed?" What, am I just supposed to fucking burn alive silently? Gracefully watch skin melt off my bones like goddamn wax? Seems like I'm the only one who actually gives a damn about a real sister - they're allowed spend a year crying about one death and another sulking to their graves about a second but I can't even go out and punch a damn tree without it being turned into a teaching moment. 

My knees pop as I stand up still eye locked, "I can always what?" Exhale, "come to you? We aren't fucking sisters and neither were they, so please," inhale. I scratch my forearm, towering over her with frenzied hair and stinging knuckles, you're not my fucking sister. She doesn't even know who the hell Jasmine even is, nevertheless who I even am. I'm burning alive but to her all I am is a joint addict with anger issues and I guess that's all I'll ever fucking be to an adopted family. A facade. 

"Stop pretending you're so relevant." I'm burning alive.

And I'll be damned if I have to burn with her.