Sometimes, in the darkest parts of the night when he's curled up on his side and unable to sleep, he wonders what would have happened if he hadn't gone to the conbini that night, if he'd been ten minutes earlier or an hour later - where would he be(more) right now?
-Masayoshi laughing breathlessly and Gotou dug his fingers into hipbone, holding him down against Gotou's lap. "Why are you laughing so much?" Like he didn't know, like he wasn't fluttering his fingers down Masayoshi's bare side to make him laugh, because he tightened reflexively when he did so, when tugging gently at Masayoshi's ear with his teeth didn't quite do the trick...
"Gotou-san please," Masayoshi pleading, gasp caught up in his throat, he squirmed down and yes, that was better, do that again, 'yoshi-
Gotou buried his face in Masayoshi's neck, arms tight around his chest. Masayoshi murmured in his sleep and sighed contentedly. If he hadn't gone out that night, if he hadn't been curious and stopped, a thousand 'what ifs' led him here and he couldn't stand to think of how many nights he slept in this bed alone.
"Gotou-san?" Masayoshi murmured, and Gotou kissed his neck. He wriggled in Gotou's arms, but Gotou had him too tightly. "Are you crying?"
Gotou kept his eyes closed and forehead pressed against the back of Masayoshi's head. "I'm fine, 'yoshi," he murmured. "Go back to sleep, okay?"
He always forgot that Masayoshi was stronger than he looked. He finally managed to roll over, still in Gotou's arms; and he took Gotou's face in his hands and gently kissed under his eyes.
"You don't have to cry, Gotou-san," he said softly. "I'm here."(less)
birds i cant name and bugs i never see in the daytime start their age old conversation, probably an argument over some primordial mystery into which ill never be invited; the moon looks sternly at her children and they cower in the bushes, branches, on the asphalt and in(more) the tall grass. night falls like a novelty coffee mug off a busy kitchen counter, crashing into irreconcilable shards and fragments, spilling its heavy contents onto the earth. it starts.
sometimes i believe with all my soul and every part of my body that listens to me and with all my senses and thoughts and feelings that my lot in life is to be alone. id live in a little apartment (exactly the same as the one my aunt and uncle used to live in before it burned down that one day in april a long time ago; etched into my memory like a blood blister under a nail) its grey and dim and empty because my creativity and imagination for all its worth cannot furnish a house properly and when i think about life alone with no one to impress or please or share things with, experiences whither like husks, like those translucent cicada shell things that they leave with their little claws tucked into wood so that theyd sit forever upright, waiting for the next thing to come along the same way we are.
studying for math is hard, but its harder still to walk around campus surrounded by people who still look forward to things and have that glint of hope and promise and the assumption that people are good in their eyes and i have to study myself and wonder how it is i lost that and why im okay with not having it anymore. (less)
During the late summer afternoon when the house is empty and the air is heavy like a blanket, Greta spends hours powdering and plucking and painting her face, every flick of the wrist a victory in maintenance, in correction, in discipline.
(more) Then come the clothes. She crouches over baskets like a mantis until she feels the thin fabric of whatever will cling to her curves most gracefully; whisper at those whose eyes skim over her like searchlights. She relishes the clack of her emerald boots, echoing as wishes do in the empty house.
She's brushed her hair into a copper swoop and her parted lips bloom out of her face like a flower. She is a conqueror of the artificial; of the feminine. She throws her shoulders back before opening the front door, carrying herself in the way that only women who have created themselves do. Her belt squeezes her ribs like a fist and her shoes pinch the serrated skin of her heels, but she steps onto the front porch because she is a warrior.
"Good morning!" says the post officer at the top of her driveway, uncurling a smile.
But Greta just nods at him, clutching at her mail before turning on her heel back toward the house. She flips through the stack of envelopes before falling asleep on the couch and waking up in the middle of the night.(less)
I am the little words that pass you lonely. I am the gasps and the screams and the pain. I am the hollow end, the painful push, that last little bit of hurt you can take.
I am that painful thing that reminds you what is to b(more)e alone, endlessly alone. Always lost. Always adrift. But inside me there is more: I am the loss and the life. I am the beginning and the end and the middle and the post script. I am so much and so little all at once.
I am tired of being tender. Your little heart is aching and I keep trying to grin but the lights fade to black and the grin looks ghoulish. I keep trying to make you blissful, to give you some kind of inner peace but the suffering is always louder. The pain is always sharper. The end is always more prominent then the beginning.
So flush your memory and try to forget me. I am too many ugly thoughts. I am too many unfulfilled promises. I am pain and weakness and heartache and loss.
But I am your soul. I am the thing inside you that treads on. I am your humanity, all balled up and ripped into ugly shreds. Yet, I still carry on. I still push you ever forward, forward to a life filled with love and relationships and success and bliss.
Don't give up, little one. Don't forget that what is difficult now will not always be. Don't believe that this state of yours is stagnant because it is far from grace but it is who you are. One little sliver. There are other parts waiting to emerge. Parts of bliss and fun, humor and creativity and a love that blooms from you, a radiance beyond. (less)