schizo

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Ill write.

Submitted: May 16, 2016

Reads: 591

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Submitted: May 16, 2016

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I didn’t write every day like I promised.

 
I stopped slicing my wrist though.
 
Its been one year since that fatal accident, blood and tears, 
dried up like crusted paint, dark and maroon, beautiful and frozen.
 
Jane, Steve, DeAngelo, 
 
It was Steve.
 
Im writing to Jane in ink that I bought in an abandoned store I found. 
 
Everything for 99 cents, and the ink made out of peacock oil,
 
The owner said he personally killed the peacock, and squeezed its eye to produce it.
 
Isn’t it beautiful.
 
The tip is sharp enough to help release this dark in me.
 
As I watch the tip seep into my skin,
 
Jane and Deangelos smiles pass my mind, their
gorgeous twin smiles.
 
The music in my head is repeating its melancholy fate, 
the smiles etched in my heart, 
and it aches so much,
so I slice hard and watch their smiles disappear.
Im Steve.
 
Whos Steve?
 
I am supposed to write Jane,
 
Tell her what happened in the bus.
 
We always took the bus together, laughing and reading to each other our nightly journal entries.
 
Hers was always about Deangelo the boy next door,
jumped a wall majestically and dared her to do the same.
 
I didn’t trust him.
 
13 he was, beautifully made, gorgeous blonde hair, on tiny almond eyes, that pierced and challenged. Wherever he went,
through each hand flick, his energy focused in a genius way, at the objects before him.
 
Jane wrote, “I always felt tested, but with Deangelo, it was never too much,
it was perfect, straight on the border between death and life,
come with him, and live,
fly, fly? or get lost, too scared? then die. And always live with the wonder and shame, and guilt, from knowing and experiencing true mystery, the boy with gorgeous blonde hair. 
 
Our first meeting was fresh, it was a song that was worth repeating.
 
I jumped that wall, that impenetrably tall wall,
 
But before I jumped I believed,
It was a stupid faith you can say.
 
But it worked, and my resolve strengthened.
From then on I knew I could trust Deangelo.
He was there for me to lean on, he was like a ground that always was below,
or a sky that was always above.
Sure he moved like the clouds,
unpredictable.
But thats why I could trust him.
Maybe it was a stupid faith.
But we had fun.
 
He was my mentor, he was my leader, he was powerful.
He was power.
 
I didnt know how to put it into words,
so I stood there looking at him squatting,
his 13 year old legs, rubbing the dirt ground, and
finding its soles, into my souls.
 
I gaped at the way he moved,
How could he move like that,
he fingered the dirt with his finger, and the dirt beneath the nail crumbled spread open, and broke apart.
 
He looked at me with a beautiful smile, and you could see what he did.
 
 
It was symbol, a majestic thing, timeless, and explored.
 
He was an explorer, going into Machu pichu, he was Colombus on his journey, 
and I was his sidekick.
 
I let myself in really.
 
The next day the rain poured, and the ground grew with the rain.
 
The earth came alive, 
when the love of God, the tears came down, feeding and nourishing.
The planet drowned in Deangelos love,
and the ants made an underground tunnel,
and protected its queen.
 
The symbol became manifest, as  unending tribulation.
 
all that in his perfect smile.
 
In that moment we needed to die.
 
And we did,
the smile disappeared and the frown appeared.
The demon came out, and the ants scurried,
some of em, half ripped open,
no blood on them just smudged black.
 
Little pieces of life, cracked, and broken,
little antennas flailing in the sky,
how numb, and how much lack.
But we were alive, and the rain kept pouring,
the stars ran away,
and Gods perfect shame pulled life in different directions.
 
Color heaven as grey,
and clouds as black,
the maroon and beautiful dirt, turned steel,
and the world clad in black behind black.
 
All of that has to go as his feet digs deeper and destroys and creates.
 
None can stay, and when its over.
 
Deangelo looks at me with his wet eyes,
and I look at the ashes below
let me dwell, and taste God.
 
God Jane, I miss Deangelo.
 
 
 
 
 


© Copyright 2020 klarke crowned. All rights reserved.

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