The tentative puerile of a child besets the vitriolic berating that he’s being given, it’s noise in his ears, a pontificate droning that he doesn’t recognize over his own hiccuped sobs of ‘stop it, I’m f-fine, just fine!’, ‘don’t tell mom!’, and ‘you’re mad, aren’t you?’

The lengths of his older brother’s fingers wreath around his arm too tightly, ( Read more... )

&& he runs the tensile of his fingers through his hair, incurvatures of his knuckles cracking as they furl into a taut fist. unvarnished gesture feels like the crude splintering of his bones - tearing through with ease and sticking obscene through his flesh, albeit sore hands are the least of his problems.

the aggravation - feeble cognition ( Read more... )

“You’re not even worthy of making into my art,” opprobrium flourishes amid each syllable, befouled enunciations, as though the very sentiment of the procured small talk was to be considered offensive to the photographer. “Like a statue you are, your body stringent with the fatigue of playing this little game, brutto e sporco.. Chi ti credi di ( Read more... )