Mean

Well. Blooming crystals axiom breaking, shatterwaves folding in and over themselves Iwantyou. Crystallising ozone layer forming dewdrop artificial. The wave toppled over itself and it said to the star, I want you. And now I’m phoenished with you.

Handle with care, taped to my forehead. Yes. We were shrouded in leaves and dewdrops, always. Sometimes at the beach, near the water, when you’d hold me and spin me around in your arms, and I’d feel your wrists near my waistband. And when we were out of the water, you’d run your hands through my hair, filled stiff with salt. I’d watch the waves topple over each other and utter a verse under my breath. Barefoot walking around the beach, and we’d stop, just so you could hug me. You were always much bigger than me.

I hope you’re reading this, you broken thing. We were in the driveway when it started. You leaned into me and I felt it but we stayed silent. Remember when you didn’t believe what I was saying, when I told you that I was broken? Look at what happened now. Glassglasses. You broke them once, and they were so wonky, and you were so ugly, and I remember, when you didn’t have enough money to buy new ones, and you didn’t tell anyone. And you were so ugly, but I loved you still.

I knew it. I knew you, back then. I felt it in me, and I could see it from a mile away. I could see into the future with a faux, petty, inherited clairvoyance through wild eyes, I could see that I would be mourning. I knew it. I knew myself. I was told I would feel like water when you left and I did. Don’t you remember?

Do you hate the south? I don’t. I don’t hate the south. I swear I don’t. The south was empty. Empty as craters are. Like something eradicated, destroyed, where twolips grew close to each other under industrial machinery. Remember, when we climbed over that construction site, to see that villa that they were building? We swore we’d stone them dead. We swore we’d choke them with the flowers that they’d ruined.

The south was the south. People would look at us weird, but we loved the south. The south lacked a soul. The south was concrete dreams and locked up princesses in fairy tales. The south was the rainbow path to escape. The south was the route to the pyramids. We never went, we never stayed. I remember how it felt, when me and him went around the perimeter, and the sun was boiling us alive like frogs, and we couldn’t breathe, and.

Well. It was thick, I remember how the air got thicker and thicker over the years. I met you back then, and the air was thin, crystalclear breathingfilm blooming. And then it was thick. No one could breathe anymore. Except us, we built our own world around the thickness. We made it thicker until we could eat it, for God’s sake. Remember the butterflies? How you used to pick them up with your fingers for only a few seconds and then let them go. That was when I knew you liked to hurt for fun.

The hospital’s top that overlooked the valley was now desolate. The valley was now desolate. From twolips become onelips and barren wastelands consumed me, barren wastelands consumed the earth.

I split your head open on the pavement and water came out leaking like a fountain, I drank from. I drank from I would I wood scraping your back brokenbrown. Don’t do that again. A way a lone you scorched my head off. I remember everything.

The way you wrote stuff, on little scraps of paper, anyone would think they were picked out from the trash; but not me. I remember your messy handwriting, sharp loops and disconnected letters. You wanted to write in cursive so you could be pretty for me. The scrapes and taps of the pencils you used and sharpened against leaflets, only to tell me something I already knew. It was a warning, and I didn’t listen. It was a warming, but I didn’t listen.

Up. Shine. Up. Up. Up. Up. Look up there. Where I’m pointing.

North. I loved the north, until he broke it. Until he took it in his hands and snapped its spine apart vertebrae breaking down neck bending low face looking soil, weeping willow. I wanted to make her promise, please, let me use your spine when you die so I could drink the spinal fluid and have you in me. She died and her spine was snapped by him.

I thought I’d get what I wanted. The north was always disappointing. It always broke me, when I went. When I’d see the fields, summeroversummer, get smaller and smaller until there weren’t any left. Inhabitants of paradise will always try to take it from you to sell you apples covered in wax.

The north was supposed to be colder but it was only dryer and higher. Siccative of the lungs and the face. Dried up vinegar breaking molecular structures on our skin. You rubbed sand on my knees in a circular motion, outwards, outwards, going slowly to the center. Always approaching the middle.

You always said you hated the things you can’t control. You always said that people would take the rockiest path possible to get to your heart, to the center of your being, and spin you, and spin and spinspin in circles until flowers bloomed. The center was rotten in both of us. Sauna almostspicyheat infiltrating our nostrils, steamed, burnt-out, mosscovered mold. The centre rolled out before our eyes. The centre made us dizzy, tripped us over, broke us into three.

We were sick. Bacteria swimming in our guts and our mouths. We were stuck in the hospital’s palliative care wards. There was nothing we could do. It was gone, done, dusted, over. I saw myself climbing the rainbows upwards to the place we’d always talk about. A sweltering summer where we could sit under the shade cloudedshrouded simmeredover under the trees. It would all be red and yellow, and blue.

The red and yellow blue signs rise up once more to break the continuously existing barrier of space-time revolutionary bad children growing to be the sun of the system. An affluent effluvium of burning up coagulated ozone layers one by one peeled up and over like the subtle layers we wear in winter to protect from the icy blue. There’s nothing to fear. Keep moving. Move along now, no one’s going to wait for you.

Move along now.

Well, when you couldn’t take it any longer to stay in that house of yours because it felt like a store you decided to pack your bags and take things from the house, like a store. Anyways, you continue taking these things and stacking them and you realise they are of no value to you. You fill up your suitcase with several categories of things. First, things that make you sentimental. You will miss these beatings, and all the green vines and branches tapping on your windows, and the clock that went tick-tick-tick that you listened to every time you couldn’t sleep. And you took all the portraits drawn of Amelia, your friend, and you steal a lock of someone’s hair. Whose? You don’t know.

Emerald green. That was what you called your memories. Pukish emerald green, shining like stained glass, right back at your eyes, reflecting, but piercing you. It was all shrouded. Always. The garlands you wore around your head were to make you stop being dizzy from all the things going on around you. You spun around until you got dizzy enough to get drunk off of the dizziness.

You had to hold yourself until you could leave. Leave. Leave. Right now. You had to jump, pack your bags, and leapve off that building. Up and over the clouds you left with bruises, but you left. I swear, I can still feel you. I can see you in the north. I can see you in the south, I can see you. Roll out over me again