{ and so it goes } izar.
Jun 10, 2016 19:04:47 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 10, 2016 19:04:47 GMT -5
I Z A R S T E P H E N S
There
is
an
ache,
somewhere,
a pelagic
pain —
some emptiness
in bones
stretched too
hollow,
chassis thinning,
the dust of weathering
inorganics,
chipping, brittle
underneath
the strain
of decay.
Or is it
because
fifteen,
I grew
too big
for Lucem’s
skin,
the membrane
bare
at knees
and elbows.
My mother’s
stitches
were
stretched
taut
against
a breakable
frame,
threads
finding holes
in itself.
Is it
because
overgrown,
I start
mornings
by pulling
at these ends,
tying together
the loose
filaments of
something ugly,
worn
for too long,
too often,
sewed together
to patchwork
perfection,
the itch of
scars
picked
open
to pieces.
Is it because
I woke up
in someone
else’s bed
today.
Because
last night
I wanted,
needed,
willed for,
the emptiness
to swallow
an asterisk
left behind,
a smudged
afterthought to
what was no longer there,
and is it
because
yesterday
with
all cups
of
a
leftover
Reaping eve,
high hopes,
last chances,
us —
so stupidly
desperate
to die,
I had every drink
mixed
into
a cocktail
for loss,
laughed
at tomorrow,
then closed the
bathroom door
and let my
stomach scream
words I’ve forgotten
how to say,
in a voice
that always
roars
from
my abdomen
to only
ever
emerge
soundlessly
from my mouth,
lost.
Is it
because
because?
because
I am
not
Lucem.
But Izar
is no one
at all.
A dead boy’s
name
clings
like water
and
District Two
amasses
like the sea.
My mother
and father
will be watching.
Her eyes are still searching
my face for her son,
his hands
around
my neck —
finger prints
left
shadows,
blue and gray
that took days,
voiceless,
breathless,
to finally f a d e,
and
then,
so did
he.
My shirt unravels at the hem,
hands pulling a thread
that unknots,
fingers running
along the edges,
closing my eyes
as the clock
moves
closer and
washes against
the shore of the
Reaping.
But
I stay underneath
the covers
of a stranger’s
bed and
wonder.
What
does it mean
to die?
The Reaping,
the tributes,
Luce,
a person who doesn’t exist,
who makes himself at home
in the dust on the furniture,
the trick of light,
the sickness that stirs sin in
my stomach,
and Luce,
I can’t
compete with
the dead.
Because,
my mother who always puts a
hand to my cheek, tells
me she loves
me, misses me.
Because looking in
mirrors to suck in air,
to feel out the strings
of a loosening face,
because
never being
pretty enough,
talented enough,
anything enough.
Because
what is death
but proof
that
blood
muscle
breath
— you are
loved?
The sound of a crowd
gathering towards
the square
surges.
Organs rock
carefully
against the
motion outside
my window.
I rise,
fall
and wait —
for the tidal
line, for
the moment
I could move
through
the sea,
water parting,
an ocean
quiet at my
feet.
I rise,
fall,
chest
heaving
on the brink
of a flood.
stagnancy,
zeroes,
learning to
disappear
into the
cimmerian
folds of
my clothes for
my mother's eyes,
remebering
to be aphonic
and lose
my name
for my
father's
ears.
so why do
I want to be
right now?
(why
do
I
want
to
scream?)
The town square fills.
There is an
unplaceable
pain.
And maybe
it's because
I'm still
drunk.
is
an
ache,
somewhere,
a pelagic
pain —
some emptiness
in bones
stretched too
hollow,
chassis thinning,
the dust of weathering
inorganics,
chipping, brittle
underneath
the strain
of decay.
Or is it
because
fifteen,
I grew
too big
for Lucem’s
skin,
the membrane
bare
at knees
and elbows.
My mother’s
stitches
were
stretched
taut
against
a breakable
frame,
threads
finding holes
in itself.
Is it
because
overgrown,
I start
mornings
by pulling
at these ends,
tying together
the loose
filaments of
something ugly,
worn
for too long,
too often,
sewed together
to patchwork
perfection,
the itch of
scars
picked
open
to pieces.
Is it because
I woke up
in someone
else’s bed
today.
Because
last night
I wanted,
needed,
willed for,
the emptiness
to swallow
an asterisk
left behind,
a smudged
afterthought to
what was no longer there,
and is it
because
yesterday
with
all cups
of
a
leftover
Reaping eve,
high hopes,
last chances,
us —
so stupidly
desperate
to die,
I had every drink
mixed
into
a cocktail
for loss,
laughed
at tomorrow,
then closed the
bathroom door
and let my
stomach scream
words I’ve forgotten
how to say,
in a voice
that always
roars
from
my abdomen
to only
ever
emerge
soundlessly
from my mouth,
lost.
Is it
because
because?
because
I am
not
Lucem.
But Izar
is no one
at all.
A dead boy’s
name
clings
like water
and
District Two
amasses
like the sea.
My mother
and father
will be watching.
Her eyes are still searching
my face for her son,
his hands
around
my neck —
finger prints
left
shadows,
blue and gray
that took days,
voiceless,
breathless,
to finally f a d e,
and
then,
so did
he.
My shirt unravels at the hem,
hands pulling a thread
that unknots,
fingers running
along the edges,
closing my eyes
as the clock
moves
closer and
washes against
the shore of the
Reaping.
But
I stay underneath
the covers
of a stranger’s
bed and
wonder.
What
does it mean
to die?
The Reaping,
the tributes,
Luce,
a person who doesn’t exist,
who makes himself at home
in the dust on the furniture,
the trick of light,
the sickness that stirs sin in
my stomach,
and Luce,
I can’t
compete with
the dead.
Because,
my mother who always puts a
hand to my cheek, tells
me she loves
me, misses me.
Because looking in
mirrors to suck in air,
to feel out the strings
of a loosening face,
because
never being
pretty enough,
talented enough,
anything enough.
Because
what is death
but proof
that
blood
muscle
breath
— you are
loved?
The sound of a crowd
gathering towards
the square
surges.
Organs rock
carefully
against the
motion outside
my window.
I rise,
fall
and wait —
for the tidal
line, for
the moment
I could move
through
the sea,
water parting,
an ocean
quiet at my
feet.
I rise,
fall,
chest
heaving
on the brink
of a flood.
stagnancy,
zeroes,
learning to
disappear
into the
cimmerian
folds of
my clothes for
my mother's eyes,
remebering
to be aphonic
and lose
my name
for my
father's
ears.
so why do
I want to be
right now?
(why
do
I
want
to
scream?)
The town square fills.
There is an
unplaceable
pain.
And maybe
it's because
I'm still
drunk.
