13.05.24, or handbooks on via crucis
I spend my nights facing an unlocked gate in hopes I catch the passage of time in a rusty whim. I don't. It has a way of overrunning you like Santa Claus in your grandparents' porch; like the realization of yourself a little too late.
I don’t regret as much as I wonder or as much as I tether "what ifs" into dirty locks of hair. Open-mouthed prayers into showers for no one but me - in evil and fog, I am my own useless god. I'd crucify me to bring back what I never had but redemption sours the tongue of those who never speak.
I'm the quietest kid in the room.
I won't cry such inconveniences and instead I'll hide inside my mother's toilet and crash my skull against battery fluid leaking from cameras. I'll be remembered for the words I carved against my skin to hide under black clothes. Beautiful and haunted enough to bite you in the neck.
Ugly and barren to choke me instead.