Epigram

Blood pumps endlessly throughout ivory veins.

Limbs move repetitively, avoiding the crisp wind of the afternoon day. The sun filtered behind forgotten hill tops; dancing idly behind the clouded veil. Cradles into the comfort of the wool; wraps the fabric around his emaciated carcass as to bite the wind backward. His efforts are simply in vain, as the wind nips his hollowed cheeks greedily.

The creature knows this place. Has memorized it's every detail; carved into the back of his macabre mind so that he may remember later. Knows brick after weary brick, has run his withered fingertips along their edges until they have leaked maroon, have punctured skin and flesh in the ambient attempt to retain him. Deadened optics trace lifelessly across cement padding, searching for source of entertainment and finding none. Limbs brush past other lifeforms -- cladded uniforms adorned with plates of respect. He has none. An ambiguous facade; marred with maroon puzzles, and decorated with blue and purple. He wears his bruises as his badge, as his prize, rather than his fault.

It stalks endlessly; meandering appendages carrying him far from the basement, from the classroom, from the comfort of sanctuary. It is perhaps what he does best -- ambiguity. Hollowed frame carries for what feels like miles: muscles weak with fatigue and indifference, circles formed under dead mirrors, and he dreams of a mattress beneath his feet. 

As he wanders, he finds himself in an unfamiliar territory: buildings formed with familiar architecture, but of a different atmosphere. Here, there is no cloud pressed to his chest. There is no daunting feeling of ill-satisfaction. Here, he finds his murmuring brain at ease. Clouded pools raise, absently, to peer at the creatures that shuffle before him: a fray of unknown sheep, bleating and blathering as they stumble aimlessly within each other. The creature does not move forward, does not engage their interaction. Instead, he stays apart. Bruised fingers dug into the fabric of his own skin, causing him to bleed maroon. He swayed, restless, at the edge; scattered pools dancing from bodice to bodice with no certain degree of interest.

I'm Sorry, I'm Lost

Driftwood, beached on shore. Cascaded by ribbons of sand. He has found solitude amongst the sea; broken into the softened, salty air. Feels it rushing through his lungs, ripping through his heart: bleeding through his intestines until he feels completely and utterly free. He has danced throughout time, completed the motions of a miserable life. Poisoned once by his desire for nothing, ribs shipwrecked as he plunged his orifices into powder, drowned his sorrows by the bottle. He was a work of art; a Sylvia Plath poem.

A stowaway. A wreck of a man, plagued by his own misfortune. Tired circles pierced under crystalline eyes, he wandered aimlessly from person to person, from cabin to cabin. A laugh pierces the air, but it is not his own. Shameless faces worn with regret; pupils widened with anticipation only to be twisted, broken until air is not his own. He has many faces, many words tumbling out of pierced grins; but he is one person. A name. Judas Villa. Boiling in the undertones of society, he is a name -- a story whispered through inquisitive kindness. Skill with a knife, with powder, with charisma. A morally deformed crook; broken from the sense of an ill-forgotten childhood. A plague upon the rest of civilization. A name.

Painful Memories

Fingers cross frivolously weak bones; spines on repeat and ribs twist like the arms of a decrepit tree. A box labeled fragile, he was never handled with care. Knocked around, passed between hungry fingers, until the contents were so battered and bruise they couldn't distinguish left from right and up from down. Half-hearted apologies are mumbled through weary lips, and his whole life he listens earnestly -- believes in their fragility, and hopes that they will mend. Break through the exterior he has built, instill within him the trust he so earnestly seeks.


Humbly committed to the prison they had built for him, there was no evidence of bail. Heartbeats rotting in frozen nights, wails muffled into frostbitten wind. Nervous fingers twitched with the anxiety of contact, a gift given from the women who had birthed him -- made him afraid of flying objects and pinched words. He pushed question marks at the ends of statements, hid behind shielded, ashen limbs, and wondered on the price of his sanity.

♛♛♛

His home became stale. Worn with pictures of martyrs; hanging from barely plastered walls. He grew restless, weary eyes dazzled with the destiny of greatness -- a picture painted into the foreground of his mind, present with his every bred action. He swung with the delicacy of a fawn blossoming into a stag -- anchors tethering him to the ground he had yet to wither within. They faded, with time. Ghosts murmuring on the wind as they swayed in and out of existence.

Wandered at a young age, crept within the dying streets and brawled in hidden corners with the fray. A mongrel. Street-rat. He knew nothing but the acid that crept through his veins -- poisoned his insides as well as his outsides; broken up fragments of dissected mind pieces bled through gardened veils. Couldn't find ways to translate feelings into words; bled his feelings into fists, and pounded, pounded, pounded until his vision was one of rainbows -- yellow, blue, purple, red. He couldn't understand the word stop. Muffled into the dictionary of words he barely knew, such as love, understanding. No incentive to learn, no incentive to live -- just a burnt flame quickly dissipating to ash.