coda; cyrus & mika blitz

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

► ► ►

Some days, I wait for the catastrophe of my personality to make sense again.

Because like fashion, everything comes back into style, I guess – some kind of strange modernity in being depressed, our antiheros all glamorously languishing on a screen,

but nobody wants to hear the story

of weariness.

Nobody wants
to know you’re tired,

that some days it’s not about being late to photoshoots, walking into parties half-dressed, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the garbage, tossed just a day ago.

Some days,

I feel like a hole.

A the story
nobody wants to hear.

Everything's flickering. Conversation like an earworm, sick sounds all over the place. Some New Year’s party, before midnight, bite my nails and taste a memory.

I feel like falling.

When he left, I cried.

And I guess, after Pallas, there were others,
people I pulled underneath my covers, unwrapped, waited for something significant in the dim light and I was never sure if

I was just missing some joke, some secret, something to feel.

Yesterday, when he left, I cried.

Somebody, who was “such a fan,” he told me that he loved my shoots, that winter campaign, the editorials – he told me that he loved me. The first thing he ever said and

he was such a liar.

I wished –

I wished he was the locked bathroom door, the sink running water, pacing two feet back and forth. I wished he was the fucking bottle I emptied, the pack I threw out, somewhere underneath covers.

I wish he was a place to hold tears.




He left and

no, I’m not all that I’m cracked up to be, I'm not
and people leave me all the time.

All the time.

Fuck, I’m so drunk.

Walking into someone blurry, soft, lose footing, spill a glass of whatever, I feel like falling.

So I do.

[tick 12a / calla]

c y r u s .

These kind of places make me want to bash my own brains out.

Full rooms and empty smiles, drinking and laughing and celebrating the coming of a new year like it's something to be happy about.

Fuckin hypocrites.

Because,
another year won't change a damn thing.
We'll all still be fucked in the morning.

Peeling wallpaper and glittering lights, trying to blend into the decor because shutting up and looking pretty is the easiest thing to do in this situation.

Cheap tricks and cowardice, it's the easy way or the highway.

Never my way, I guess,

I don't even want to be here. I don't even know why I'm here.

Free drinks maybe. Something to help me forget.

But I'm alone ( always, always, always alone ), trying to sink into the purple haze and pretending to chat up all the shadows hanging around me.

What a mess.

And then it gets even messier because I'm here, minding my own business, crying into a technicolor glass, and someone knocks it o v e r. Spilling crystalline and it's on my fucking shirt now. Messy messy messy.

A body follows it down, oh no, and "whoaa, man." A weight laying down on my arms and this somehow feels familiar, an old tape recording being rewound back to the very beginning. "careful - shit's expensive, you know."

I don't think I care, though.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

► ► ►

I think

I’m unreasonably drunk.

Unreasonably -- but maybe this is what it’s supposed to be. Tantamount to an addiction, the feeling of moths resting with wet wings. I think of school, nervousness, first crush. Things people called butterflies,

common sense fluttering, stomach bug, sensibility crawling insect-like from my body.

A year since I’ve done something stupid like this – a boy, kissing speed underneath my tongue, melted, closing the space between us, his hand around my wrist.

A summer ago and I finally got rid of him.

"Careful - shit's expensive, you know."

Clothes are dispensable like that.

I’m shit, I’m not that expensive,
I should know.

“Sure, fuck off,” I say. But I’m still lying on him, the wetness of the drink seeping between us and he cannot fuck off even if he wanted to.

I’ve never been good at dialogue, words as cinematic as a movie, an euphemism for sadness. It tastes heavy in my mouth, rusted, familiar, and I want to take it back.

I want it back.

Capitol melodrama, and maybe I’m just stupid.

I shift for balance – so does something inside, a climbing ache that beats against the lining of my stomach, rising a burn at the base of my neck, head clanging,

“Fuck –”

I wanted to tell him sorry.

Instead, miss a step, and I vomit all over him.

[tick 12a / calla]

c y r u s .

He's heavy.

Dead and drunk in my arms, he's the cement blocks around my ankles but all I really want to do is sink to the bottom of the ocean anyways.

So I guess it could be worse.

He says a "fuck off" somewhere between the fall and the pain of a sharp elbow. And lemme tel ya pal, I would if I could but his limbs are waterlogged, immobile
and I just want to go home
( to him, six feet under. )

But my luck must be really fucking shitty this year, just like every damn year, because it just gets worse.

Of course, it gets worse.

It can always get worse.

He throws up and r i p r e d - "c'mon man, really?"
Is this fucking year over yet.

Gotta be responsible, but I don't have the energy for this anymore, a grimace and "Are you, uh, here with someone?" Can someone please collect their baggage. "Is there anyone I can get to help you? Cut me some slack here"

And I think of steady hands and bubblegum hair, fake diamonds in his smile and comfort in the lines of his body.

He'd probably help the asshole himself.

And if he chokes on his own vomit I'm screwed, involuntary manslaughter or something I don't know. I haven't been this much of a mess since I filled the bathtub with blankets and empty vodka bottles and pretended to drown.

But maybe next year will be better.

I doubt it.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

► ► ►

I’m kinda pathetic.

Coughing, I try to stand.

Another party;
here is the lifestyle of the young,
the glamourous, immeasurability spinning me back down.

Here is another night lying in

the bathroom, noises muted to a closed door. The water runs with
all the places I’ve cried in the past year and a half,
the bottles that consoled me, the tile floor where I slept,
the last time someone called me Mika and meant it.

He’s softer I guess.

Why is it no longer enough -- to be here, with people strewn all over my life. Just like clothes, a hurricane of fabric across my bed, a million material things and none of it feels real anymore.

Wipe my mouth on my sleeve --
sorry, sorry, I murmur but it doesn’t sound real, it doesn’t sound like me. A voice that drifts from
the valley of his stomach.

Try to move a third time --

"Is there anyone I can get to help you?”

I hate him.

I hold his face between my hands. Steady my vision of him.

“Maya,” I tell him.
Maya
Maya
Maya
Over and over again until I lose her in the folds of his clothes, muffled when I say

“But she’s gone.”

A new year for the miserable, the clock tolls closer to midnight,
an infallible sickness
clinging to every word and this is so, so stupid and I’m so unforgivable now, so past gone and

tired,

“Take me home…please.”

[tick 12a / calla]

c y r u s .

my teeth ache from this -
the sweetness of melancholy.

and i think i'm sick of it all; a room with a view,
two dozen drunks pretending to be something they're not. it's a playback, time stuck in every capitolite's dream; a night made pretty with pink
lights and too much tequila.

but there's
a drink spilled on my shirt
and vomit spilled on that.

i've become a man of many layers

and i think of
scattered clothes on the bedroom floor,
screaming someone's name in enough ways to call it a language. 
pulling sheets off the mattress,
lying on the floor, against the wall.
hanging from the ceiling and on his every word.

i hate you -
a liars tongue

except

his ears would turn the colour of strawberry soda,
ripred, i'm sorry
something swirling in the glass,
i love you
and i could always tell.

it's okay.

and now there's radio static in my arms, something kind of fuzzy, someone barely there, nothing but a Maya and it's still the best news of the night - some kind of trade off and i can go home, hide under the sink and sleep for another thirteen hours.

but she's gone.

and they're always gone
i guess.

and i could always tell that

i was bad at everything - walking backwards in a crowd, wearing clothes inside out, winking with both eyes shut. i stole a centrepiece. something marble, expensive, explosive, and made the mistake of calling it baby.

sugar coated and champagne drowned,
take me home, he says

and okay.
"okay."
okay.

i think
it's almost midnight.
and my mouth tastes like gunmetal.

"where's home?"

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

► ► ►

“Where is home?”

A year of dial tones, months compressed into seconds --

somewhere,
my mother calls me fucking stupid to a husband who lets her;

somewhere, a boy finds some other tragedy between the fifth and sixth vertebrae of a spine. An
amphetamine death underneath a sweetened tongue, pulse wet-winged, pupils dilate in a strange trick of affection;

somewhere, my sister --
gentle clamour between deserts of eleven fifty p.m., champagne bottles opening to a halo of vapour, glitter on my fingers, the room is pale and hazy.
He floats in a blindspot, wavering, surreal. Somewhere,
moons ago, and

where is
all the time

that heals.

“I don’t know,”

close my eyes to a phantom pain. Words spoken to where they are lost to
an echo pressed between a year of midnights. An iteration of death, another method of buried, and who do I ask, here;

what the fuck
am I supposed to do now?
I am the lamentable end, I am dying, I am searching

for the exit --

“Just take me there.”