He thinks he bleeds ichor or maybe dreams he doesn’t when he’s speeding 50 down the 30 mph main street. The church he hates spikes on the right side of main street and he turns up the radio, blanking out the sounds of hymns his ex girlfriend sings, raising her voice to a heaven he only pauses to ponder when his fevered dreams sweat it out of him and sting his eyes like this could make him cry. He’s vindictive though, he’s the middle child, he likes to make his voice louder, he likes to yell and defy and spit on expectations that make mamma’s heart hurt, and his too probably so he grabs the blankets closer, wraps himself in a hug until he’s burning an explosion to rock the house and make your eyes blink white.
I almost can’t recall in the smoke of choking memories piling year after year into growing rain clouds of mid year break downs but I swear he was in an explosion like that, burning half his face off and sending him off on shock legs that martyred him and made us think “hero,” in the sprawling of glass that slid into place like a holy mosaic while the rest of our mouths parted in awe or terror at the stabbing thorns and almost mud dark red. “Divine,” one girly whispered in the pew behind me or maybe the back leather seat, and for a moment I almost snapped my head back like he did when the fire burned his beastly fur half whine and roar - but listen he doesn’t need your love girly, only dressing yourself up as a kohl eyed priestess of death but really what do you know girly. They shuffle out of churches shaking their heads ruefully all done up in pink lipsticks that makes their lips prune but can’t bother to cover his nakedness - exposed and flayed raw - can’t even bother to avert their eyes when he asks for peace or come pray at his feet when he begs mercy because not even incense bought down at the corner store with jingly beads covers up the stench of that rot and people can’t stand broken if it’s not beauty. And They stumble out of car doors with little twisted teenage smirks ready to go down to the saltwater beach and wet their wings until they can’t fly too weighed down along the lines of their back dragging them to hell as they try to crawl up the dunes. It’s pathetic when they say the ocean is their tears but who am I to judge? I’d preach the same.
See but he’s not tragic, he’s not. He’s just crying and bleeding and racing through red lights in hopes he dies fast and young but I road buckled into the front seat with the windows rolled all the way down and felt night air bite my eyes, but even with the space between us holding drinks that promise poison he was warm. I swear he’s not just burning hot. I swear he was warm.
- How Young Men Bleed // L.B.
Inspired by @discardedtwigs prompt: using the words: ichor, divine, tragic, wings, holy & hero ; write a story or poem that is not in any way about mythology.
Summary: Your heart beats faster when you are closer to your soulmate. It glows a bright red when you finally meet him. After an unfortunate experience your mother had, you completely hated this, until you found him.