mister-selfdestruct:

There’s hand carved statues guarding the doorway. Standing silent, incense burning at the point of crossed shins. Patient, and still, you can never see them draw breath, no matter how long you wait. The threshold births me into a room of warmth and love and broken feelings. The idea that nothing is pure is made physical in the thickness of the air. Subtly stifling and suffocating, I find little solace in my belonging to such a place. Where a childhood was spent far away, travelling across words behind my locked door. The chaos of distorted rhythms is a soothing blanket over cold shoulders and tallied worth. Children who’ve been paying off their debts far longer than dead generations can ever care for, still throw themselves off buildings that hold no flower beds to ruin on the way down. But when they hit the ground, the memories of roses and gardenia spill out onto the footpath, for strangers to step over politely. Up into the air, a rising mist of blood red memories that should have been, only to be breathed in and changed by the next set of lungs into hopes and prayers and wishes that only come true by chance, not fate. A hollow satisfaction that was carefully constructed inside us to leave us feeling like something is missing, no matter how powerful the positive input becomes.

Fuck them all. Fuck the people who created us into the mutated faces we see in mirrors of all kinds, be they glass or a lover’s eyes. I fear no pain, I question no passions and I can cover up the scars with colours that exist far beyond the spectrum of the sensibilities that have been forced on children bound in ropes in a room that’s a cross between a leather padded cell and the filthy cellar where they all go to be bled. Just so they understand pain and how their body is supposed to react normally.

Just don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t ever need, and don’t ever want without knowing why. Creep along the ceiling because people never look above eye level. All the memories of statues and flowers are still as powerful when the sun blows in lavenders to greet you like a backhand across the head. Realise that you are home, because home is where the heart is, and the only place it could ever be is inside you, and no matter how hard they try, it can’t be taken out.