Winter

you are born with a cavity in your chest.

a hole where your heart should be. you decorate your thin, blued lips with roses, and you plump your hollowed cheeks with sun-haze. but it can not cure the winter of your bones; the corpses that dance between your ribs. because you are born with caskets tied to your ankles, and anchors tethered to your limbs that drag you further, and further, and further until you drown.

you inscribe your words into wood; bonded to the collective darkness that bandages your heart as if vulnerability is your wound. sometimes, there is too much heat. your bruised fingertips are singed by the fire that blooms from their chests, and you find yourself recluse again. an oddity among mankind. 

you are born with the snow. you are born and offered to winter, as a newborn with scrambling limbs and muffled screams. you are cruel as a child; you pick at scabs and count the undertones of your hampered breathing patterns as a remedy for the violence that is bred within your bones. you grow into a lonely thing. 

you are a wild child born to women with crossed hands and bowed heads; a brevity of confidence where there had once been none. you refuse to be of them, shake their stories from your skull, erasing the lullabies they'd planted in your heart. you wanted a cacophony - the brilliance of dysphoria as it paints it's way across your membrane. in the heart of the night, you crawl under itchy sheets and promise that you will empty your veins of them: refuse to be restrained and softened into a peach that is made impure by a man's hands. 

you are the divided myth of a broken household, a fragment of the father you never knew and the ghost of a mother who had long since passed. you are violent, you are cruel, and you are selfish. you are not bound by your bruised knees or your dirty knuckles.

Prolific

Born with a crown carved into his chest, Thaddaeus Adonai Voltz had been egregiously born with the talent of perfection.

How arduous.

He forget the curse of his mother's Christian name by the time he had revolved eighteen thousand and twenty five times around a hysterical moon. She had perished by the blame of the Earth; had fallen victim to dirt and poison - and in all honesty, Daeus had never been quite sure how she had withered in her coffin. He'd always thought death was rather romantic until it singed his nostrils and burned his brain.

He had been genderless until he had graced air; but his birth had been nothing less of a miracle for two desperate adults.

( thaddaeus (aramaic) - matt. 10:3 - that praises or confesses. )

His knees were raw from wood: from spending hours upon hours bent on his bones with his fingers folded together, professing confessions to an ill-forgotten man who he'd pictured to sit on a throne of clouds. Daeus would never profess to his mother or father that he did not believe in such an entity: would mumble poems and prose under his breath and cross his lapel in the hope that he was convincing enough to be a blessed Christian.

It was when he was the tender age of seven that he peered between the crack of the library door. What he noticed was two bodies melded together - one that resembled his father and one of a woman. Daeus had been intrigued and confused; a pathway of veins as they protruded from flushed skin. He had been discovered, only moments later, when shoes clicked against the bitten wood: and he had been scolded with the cruelty of a belt and frostbitten words, confined to the promises of his room. It was then that he forgot God existed.

He becomes the example of his father: cruelty an addition to necessity as a fraudulent way to exponentially grow within yourself like a flower in the spring.

Born a incapable genius.