gatlin was decaying: a quick death, pulling skin from his bones and shredding the lean muscle and flesh on his forearms and calves, a tempting mess of damp tissue hidden underneath gucci and chanel and the crisp, clean-line-no-iron-never-seen-the-floor sharpness of his linen pants, bled red, all the way through,(more) his knuckles mottled red and purple, and a yellow that shown gold when stretched over pale, freckled skin bathed in the dismal twilight born out of the absence of a cold baltimore sun.
i'm not a bad person. i'm not a good person either, but i guess that's all up to god and jesus and all those peace loving faggots up in the sky. i'm a human being that's tempted by the imperfections-- the blemishes --of the world, and when i see them it makes my heart hurt in that trembling way that can only be compared to those few minuscule seconds before sex. before fucking-- before you can fuck into anything, and there's that breath that you both take, ephemeral and fleeting, before the world vacates around you and every ounce of blood in your body rushes south.
(i fucked gatlin, but his apathy was a bit of a turn off. we settled for lying in bed, barely touching, me staring at the popcorn ceiling while he, pale and fragile against the scratchy, cheap sheets, smoked a menthol cigarette that's scent reminded me of childhood.)
i've made him cry. i've made him scream, i've made him bleed out of every orifice and then, even then, mouth off to me like he believes he owns some part of the world. i've seen him dark and distant and then, two minutes later, manic and pained. i've seen him wither away.
("kill yourself," his brother had said, and i think he considered it.)(less)