to end each day — devon's end.
Sept 5, 2019 21:13:00 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Sept 5, 2019 21:13:00 GMT -5
children cry and
laugh and play
in the places
we won't walk
There is a light, a blinding figure that crosses your vision and stands before you, attacks one of your assailants like some kind of sick retribution. She brings a moment of reprieve, a polaroid still where you can catch your breath and steady your heart.
But the boy with the glasses, the one who started this and the one who you know will end it, he is your executioner, and you can tell from his eyes that he'll go through her to finish the job.
You will not let anyone give their life for yours.
There is too much of a burden there, the idea that you are important enough to die for, that anyone is, like you are ten years old again, with polished shoes and a silver spoon, surgical gloves two sizes too big.
"The only traitors are the ones that stand with the Capitol and not against it." He says and you wonder where you stand, where your family stands, the type of people caught in the middle who just wanted to help save lives.
You've always seen the world in shades of grey, a monochrome haze that had crept forward during the nights when keepers stumbled down into your basement and you treated their wounds.
But you have stuck to your resolve, coiled yourself tight around the beliefs of your family and there is no place for violence in your heart. You still haven't cried and you hope your sisters haven't either. You hope they are proud of you, and that your father knows how hard you tried to follow him.
You hope you will not be judged too harshly.
There's a glint that falls towards your saviour, a morning star, too fast to warn but you've already made up your mind. You surge forward with whatever strength you have left, use your shoulder to push her away and feel the sting of steel cut against the side of your face.
And so you fall, ship to sea, heart to home, crash to the ground and barely catch yourself on the fluorescent grass.
But you don't feel brave.
It's different, because you have seen death be gentle; the last breath of old age, a slip of consciousness and a tiny needle, a farmer refusing to let his animal suffer. You have seen the callous side of it; a leg caught in a trap, gunshots to a torso, an infection that had spread so far across a herd that they all had to be put down.
But this — the screaming of children, the words of prayer and tears and suffering — it has never been like this.
There's too much blood, you can tell, when your hand raises to where your ear was, another absence, another piece of you left behind here. You can feel the rust that covers your joints and seeps from your leg, your hands, your stomach.
You are less girl and more spirit, the mockery of an idea, a forgotten story of kindness.
The world is so bright, but you are still so young, so insignificant in the midst of all of this.
Yet you have always bruised easily, lived in a sort of delicate way, now you don't know which is worse — the pain of dying or the pain of feeling useless. Because you couldn't stop them, not any of them, and just as there was death before you, there will still be death after you.
You hope the girl who defended you can get out of this. Because the world needs more people like her, people who can take up the torch.
The world needs more light, but you have none left to give.
But the boy with the glasses, the one who started this and the one who you know will end it, he is your executioner, and you can tell from his eyes that he'll go through her to finish the job.
You will not let anyone give their life for yours.
There is too much of a burden there, the idea that you are important enough to die for, that anyone is, like you are ten years old again, with polished shoes and a silver spoon, surgical gloves two sizes too big.
"The only traitors are the ones that stand with the Capitol and not against it." He says and you wonder where you stand, where your family stands, the type of people caught in the middle who just wanted to help save lives.
You've always seen the world in shades of grey, a monochrome haze that had crept forward during the nights when keepers stumbled down into your basement and you treated their wounds.
But you have stuck to your resolve, coiled yourself tight around the beliefs of your family and there is no place for violence in your heart. You still haven't cried and you hope your sisters haven't either. You hope they are proud of you, and that your father knows how hard you tried to follow him.
You hope you will not be judged too harshly.
There's a glint that falls towards your saviour, a morning star, too fast to warn but you've already made up your mind. You surge forward with whatever strength you have left, use your shoulder to push her away and feel the sting of steel cut against the side of your face.
And so you fall, ship to sea, heart to home, crash to the ground and barely catch yourself on the fluorescent grass.
But you don't feel brave.
It's different, because you have seen death be gentle; the last breath of old age, a slip of consciousness and a tiny needle, a farmer refusing to let his animal suffer. You have seen the callous side of it; a leg caught in a trap, gunshots to a torso, an infection that had spread so far across a herd that they all had to be put down.
But this — the screaming of children, the words of prayer and tears and suffering — it has never been like this.
There's too much blood, you can tell, when your hand raises to where your ear was, another absence, another piece of you left behind here. You can feel the rust that covers your joints and seeps from your leg, your hands, your stomach.
You are less girl and more spirit, the mockery of an idea, a forgotten story of kindness.
The world is so bright, but you are still so young, so insignificant in the midst of all of this.
Yet you have always bruised easily, lived in a sort of delicate way, now you don't know which is worse — the pain of dying or the pain of feeling useless. Because you couldn't stop them, not any of them, and just as there was death before you, there will still be death after you.
You hope the girl who defended you can get out of this. Because the world needs more people like her, people who can take up the torch.
The world needs more light, but you have none left to give.
