For as long as I can recall,
that boy always loved the
sight of a jellyfish and had
once told me his dream of
even becoming a jellyfish.
(more) He always imagined that
the touch of jellyfish can
be fluffy and light and he
would smile at that a lot.
I did not have the heart
to tell him that the touch
of a jellyfish is not as he
imagined it to be, for the
touch is nothing but pain.
I let him dream without
telling him the truth of
the jellyfish he loved so.
I let him dream until
he realizes he cannot
dream any more of
the things he liked.
Like a jellyfish, he
slowly floats away
as he leaves behind
it, he has become
the truth of the
jellyfish and I
can only watch
him go as I fall. (less)
The thought is usually by itself, alone in his brain but very dominant whenever he starts to feel very little.
(more) His eyes are lifeless at times. His movements are of a doll's, only moving whenever someone was behind him, creating the movements. He would sway and sway, just by standing.
Before he regain his consciousness clearly, he found his hands wrapped around a familiar pale neck. He's shaking, he realizes, as his hands refused to let go. He wants to let go.
What does he want to let go?
The memories of the one that betrayed his heart?
Or, his hands off the neck of the one that says "I love you."?
The neck belonged to a dear friend, one that smiles gently without appearing as he was in pain. He smiles and that's all he does in response to him strangling him.
Stop smiling, he wanted to say, feeling dry tears.
He didn't understand, he could never understand his friend. His words were always confusing, his ways were mysterious, he had no idea what went on inside his brain underneath that pale hair.
Having you to kill me is my will, he says with a soft whisper.
No words ever left his lips again after that.
The young boy with lifeless eyes is sitting by the window today, his head is arched up to watch the stars but it is morning.
"I want to die," is what he thinks and desires for his own self-destruction, however he is forced to be alive and forced to remember he was the one to kill his dear friend for the world's sake.
Shouko is very kind, pretty and most of all reliable. She smikes with ease as if her life is easy and breezy, having fun with her friends.
(more) In all honesty, Emiko is a bit envious of Shouko; if it was Emiko up there showing a natural smile, she'd be called out for being a faker.
Maybe Shouko is a faker,
she thinks to herself, her
eyes follow the girl as she
involved herseld in a talk
with a taller girl- Makoto.
Maybe, she is like me, Emiko thinks.
She could be a big liar and tell tales with that cheerful tone... Emiko is now watching her quickly gather papers for someone who accidentally scattered them.
She bit her bottom lips in regret; Shouko is nothing like her, she is genunine with her purity and good intentions--- she is nothing like and will never be like Emiko.
Emiko is glad to know that out there, someone like Shouko exists.
She walks away from the scene, leaving a soft, bitter chuckle. (less)
I heard of a boy, that works not too far from here.
Stories of his beauty has made way
to my little office, and I always had
a thought if I could ever get to meet
him. Perhaps, I could ask of him to
(more) be one of my models for my paintings.
He's very pretty, they say.
He is slender, they say. Their eyes twinkle
as they describe how light and pale both his
complexion and hair color is, but they seem
almost mesmerized as they spoke about his
eyes. Apparently, his eyes are a deep red.
I knew of someone with red eyes,
a little pang stabbed in my heart
reminded me of the recent loss.
For someone rumored to be so nice-looking,
it bewilders me how he could possibly be only
working as a waiter at the nearby cafe.
He earns well, but such a job like waiting on
people did not seem to match how he looks.
When she got stabbed,
she did not die right
there and then and
got her life over with.
She stood there in pain,
(more) dealing with the heavy
affect from making the
wrong calculations of
where each knife would
land in her pale body.
It hurts, but it doesn't.
A strange speculation,
but it was quite true,
though it really felt
like she was dying,
she felt herself free.
Her eyes were hazy,
everything was too
blurry for her to see
anymore. She smiles
and laughs. The red
of her blood travels
from the insides to
the outside as she
coughs it out. Her
allies that she had
refused to realize
could only watch.
One who thought
One who thought
that they were
her fall in
In this world, the only way
to really survive through
the process of one calls
simply of the name, "life",
it is imperative to pretend.
You have to fake it, play a
(more) bit and act like you know
what you are doing, even
when you don't know.
I've learned this from a
young age, when I realized,
I couldn't be babied around
anymore with my parents.
Even if I was never "babied",
I had to realize I am my own
person and independent at that.
Holding my head high, really
just what's wrong with that?
What's wrong with being
honest in a fake world?
I tell them what they
should hear, not little
white lies--what's the
matter with telling the
truth if they wanted it?
If I'm fake, aren't you just as well?
Call me names,
tell them lies,
give me hate,
do your worst.
I won't be afraid,
I won't fake it and
say that I'm so scared
that a bunch of bratty
girls are "bullying" me.
Because I can get you back;
Haven't you seen me?
I'm beautiful, I'm a model, I'm basically an idol.
I'll steal your other friends,
I'll take your boyfriends,
I'll distract your current crushes,
I can manipulate people to my needs.
I can crush you.
Don't fake it,
of me, right?
I have so much more power than you.
I can even /destroy/ you with my hands.
But I'm kind.
I leave this
to come back.
I'll leave this old life behind
and keep my head high.
There's no point in faking it;
I'm just a lot better than you.
She smiles, nice and calm,
her lips tainted in red, red
lipstick that she preferred.
I sit, but I do not find the
comfort in being seated
(more) with such a girl as her.
She's a pure maiden, they
have told me, her heart is
supposedly full of gold and
she forgives for all that you
have done wrong in your life.
Yet, she sits in front of me, her
pale skin looking ghostly and her
light hair glows under the sunlight.
She dresses for the occasion, and
is here to make a deal with me.
Her lips are forever a smile, her
eyes full of false hope and lies
stares straight into me as I do not
say a single word. She simply smiles.
Such an unnerving smile it is too,
I start questioning myself; was this
really the most logical thing I have
thought ever since I landed here?
The answers varied, unfortunately.
"Hey, Ali," her voice is whispery
and sickeningly sweet, tinged
with malicious intent. I gulp.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" I don't
dare to refer her anything
that could remotely seem
like we were ever familiar.
She brings a dainty hand
to her bloody lips, lightly
chuckling as if what I just
said was really that funny.
"You're so straightlaced, Ali. Loosen up."
More like, she wanted me to drop
my guard and accept that she is
a divine being worth worshipping
mindlessly like half of these people
here under her captive rule. She
wanted me to be off guard; to lose.
She holds up a pair of dice, colored
red like those lips of hers that was
so much contrasting to her looks.