Phelix Turner {d5 - fin]
Feb 9, 2017 18:04:15 GMT -5
Post by rook on Feb 9, 2017 18:04:15 GMT -5
phelix turner
say
you'll
never
think
of
me
Don't say you're feeling sad for me, I'm stronger than I look. I promise.
People seem to hand me condolences like fliers, half-heartedly given, begrudgingly accepted, quickly disguarded. I continuously refuse the meek sympathies of strangers on a daily basis now, they can never understand my searing pain and loss.
it's
gone
without
a
trace
we're
lost
at
sea
It seems like everyone wants to be a part of my recovery, no matter who they are. I never wanted the consolation of an entire nation. I'd rather endure my grief in my own privacy, at my own pace, without any prompts or rules.
"You're so brave."
But there is no privacy in my life, not in my leisure time, nor in my studies, and certainly not since Eden died. Cameras frequently attack me in the streets, flashing at every turn I make, following me down every avenue, hunting me with a savage hunger. On the train, to and from the Capitol, I have to endure more subtle, focused shoots; professional exclusives to be used within the Capitol's media culture. But now they even come for me in my own home, pressing beady eyes against the windows like curious insects, trying to gaze inside and capture a precious moment that will be worth millions in years to come.
i
am
simply
moving
on
breaking
down
my
chemical
bonds
"You're doing so well."
It's false, void of compassion and empathy. Just words, words to make them feel a greater sense of self-importance. "Yay I helped". I think it's all a circus, the whole damn thing.
"You're so grown up now."
Patronising compliments stacked up on auto-cue, force-fed to me with extra syrup. No longer an infant, not quite a teenager, stuck in the in-between, my body growing, changing constantly. They say I have my dad's hair; messy, unkempt, unmanageable. I have my sisters eyes, people often tell me that we could have been mistaken for twins if we were born closer together. The same nose, the same brow.
and
i'll
return
everything
i
borrowed
But we weren't born close. Eden was a summer baby, I was a winter child. I suppose we now share January. Every time I celebrate my birth I will be reminded of her death, tainted, but something I will live with. I'll swallow it, and move forwards, always looking ahead, because that's what you're supposed to do in January, isn't it?
Pretend you're starting again.
i
fall
apart
filtered
down
into
the
soil
to
be
reused
again
Oh, they also say that I'm gentle like my mother. You know, as gentle as someone who won a Hunger Games can be. Kindhearted by nature, despite circumstance. I don't like that tag, but Patricia sticks it on me like a scouts badge of honour, hang onto your kindness, she says. Maybe I am too much like my mother.
Mom doesn't seem the same anymore. She's like a ghost inhabiting a vessel. All the things she used to do by nature have dissipated in the wormhole of her broken heart, and now she is pale, emotionless, and silent. There's no fingers running through my hair on the sofa, or squeeze of my hand before bed.
Life goes on, but mom stands still, like she's in the eye of a great storm, too afraid too move in fear of being ripped to pieces.
And that tears me apart.
Because we only have each other now.
all
that's
lost
is
found
in
the
end
