eyes, nose, lips

[Deleted]

L E I F

I don't think I can exist anymore.

Lace & West -- we held hands between curtains, I'd smile and she'd have bloody teeth and I never mourned her, I don't cry. I've always held it in my core, she holds my breath across the world, I hold her hand; her ghost mourns with me. It doesn't feel like she ever left and somehow it's even harder, they don't take me seriously without her - they never did. I hold her hands and I can't let go, I keep reminding myself, like a daily reminder, one day in don't let go.

Two days, like rose petals, individually pulling strands of hair out until she comes back, "she's coming back," it's so simple to say. So simple to convince myself wholeheartedly like the dumbass I've always been, "no worries!"

"I know West, but-"

"No worries."

You have to be prepared for the worst. I laughed in Elspeth's face, grinned like Lace was beside me with the television screen static roaring -- I'm not scared. I had so much energy. It came with being so fucking stupid. Dancing with Lace's spirit, she was alive still with me and I still want to feel that she's out there somewhere, waiting for me, tropical paradise and I'll ride a boat out there and find her waiting. For me. My lip quivers, ice would freeze over and she'd hug me again and nothing would have to change, her voice on my tongue and it all just happens like it used to. 

Maybe that's what hurts, that I'm still waiting. The finale's over with, her body's back but it's not Lace, it can't be because she's not dead and I know that- I know that, staring Elspeth in the eyes, she's out there. I just have to find her, but I know I can't. Hair tied back, vomiting at three a.m. staring at myself, "we can't pretend anymore, West,"

"Don't call me that."

It's not the same. Not without her. 

I can't sleep anymore, we used to share a bunk bed and it's disgusting sleeping in silence -- she snored so loud and we'd laugh about it, starving in the morning. Now it's just a man I've never known, fingernails pressed into my sides and I froze it out for so long. Pressing ice cubes to the pain, like it could patch up holes in the soul and there's no distractions anymore, no Lace and West and pretend fights and it's no longer fabricated. I hate it.

"Okay.
I'll help you?"

 
I regret not dying on that street. 

Broken bones and missing teeth, I've gone through it- I got away with swallowing it down with a spoonful of sugar and a slap on the ass and now it's nothing but nails. How do I do this, I've never been alone, I've never had to be not-happy. Lace would smile and sleep on the top bunk with me and we'd talk until daylight and I want to pretend that I still have that, a tangible noose I can put my insecurities in and throw it off this fucking building but it's not happening -- this is the hardest part, right? 

God I don't think I'll make it. 

The show never stops, no hiatus, no mourning and they said it would be better this way -- I got my ass beat. Awkward elbows and lanky arms, tackled into the ground and punched until I bled and I screamed Lace's name on deaf ears; pulling the girl off of me and I don't remember getting off the floor. Head throbbing, I've never done this before, grasping for air and choking on spit, humiliation blossoming in the spring -- they yell at me when I run past. Weak bitch, they're gonna throw me out- they're gonna fucking kill me, fingers shaking, hyperventilating in the bathroom and Lace would pick the blood out of my hair. God I'm so fucking tired of her, of her being fucking dead, two weeks and nobody cares about it. I panic, looking myself in the mirror without her, without myself, screaming profanities and swearing whatever bitch brought me into existence. 

I panic,

("Does it hurt?") 

I never understood why Lace asked me that so much. Staring myself in the eyes, punching the mirror until I can't see my own face past shards in my right hand, cracks and screams and it's a physical pain- not being able to breathe. Air too thick for my lungs and screaming at my own reflection, I can't do this without her, I -- it's too exhausting.

"Eve?" Self repair, I hold my breath,
half of me doesn't let go. 

Hand on the door way, the right side of my face swollen, her room smells like peppermint. "I heard you cut hair," she's waiting for me. Will she still love me when I see her again?

"I want this shit gone." A smile,
tired. 

table by  fox

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

eve  eon

My vengeance is running on fumes. Bright red blood pools beneath pastel paper and I have taken to watching it run and hide when I press my thumbs to their center. The pain has become something of a comfort. Progress in some sick, fantastical vendetta. Another's skin has chipped the paint upon my nails and there is satisfaction in the imperfection too.

I've buried rage within the blood caked beneath beds of my nails. The kind that burns away at smiles I try so hard to hold from ear to ear. It's never them. I do not hate my opponents. There is no malice stowed beneath the wins and losses which cling to my belt. I'm fresh meat and they are starving. With fangs that search for the blood and weakness the same as any other creature whose pelt is matted with the uncertainty of street life.

Life has a predetermined destination. We are fools for clawing, tearing, pulling ourselves up and over only to be doomed to fall again. I remember their faces, the taste of fear that was sweeter than I'd ever expected. That's how it was meant to be. We are small. They are big.

And I am a doll. A toy. Whose tears provide the same amount of amusement as her smiles and the pointlessness of it all is sobering. Actors, actresses, bruised fists and swollen lips. It's all the same. I think I was a fool for ever believing this place would make me strong- that there was meaning within the games that we would play. But I've lost it all. Meaning, purpose.

They burned my home, but I sold my spirit. That's the beauty of it all, a system driving us to take our own lives so that the blood needn't stain their shoes. I am a pawn, who played directly into their hands.

Over and over again, I press my thumb into its center. It hurts, but that's because it's supposed to. I'm homesick. For asphalt beneath the curve of my waist and the sound of heels against cement to wake me when the sun hits the horizon. Busy bodies and worker bees, screaming silently so that I may wake and lay content in my own ally. My own world. That's how it was supposed to be.

Instead, fire eats away at peppermint scented wax and I look into a mirror free of cracks and grime. One without character or meaning. I've no memories but that of my own empty expression, tearing through the remnants of a battle. Spit, sweat, dirt, blood. Falling in chunks out of a brush stained plastic and pink.

It's artificial.

"Eve?" So's my smile.

"I want this shit gone." It's important, how the world perceives you. Your hair, your makeup, the way you hold yourself. Judgement is a flaw of human nature, first impressions last and decay of the outside only reflects the decay within.

"Sit." My voice is soft, almost strained, there isn't much talking left to do when fists are much more efficient method of communication. I take their hair within my hands, slowly letting it fall between my fingers and picking it up once more. Thick enough to work with- easy enough to style.

The scissors are pink and plastic too.

The first cut is made along the base of their skull. The strands fall slowly, catching dimmed light and I forgot how beautiful it could be. To create, not to destroy. For the first time in a long time, I am home. With bare feet and ratty clothes.

"Tell me, why do you want to change?"

Because it matters not what a person yearns for. Truth is found beneath that- where open wounds and dirty secrets like to hide.