Worn down leather bench, soft wood caressing marble keys,
rust suffocating the delicate insides.
The piano had been tucked into the back of university
storage for years, hadn’t seen the light of day in far too long. Dust and
spider webs dance across its surface. You try to recall the last memory of it
It had once been on display in the center of the theatre,
thin fingers dancing across the keys. You try to picture his face, the curve of
his jaw and the slope of his nose but you cannot. Instead you only hear the soft
rain beating down on the roof of the school and fading symphonies.
The memories dissipate like smoke into the air. The only
thing you can remember are Yoongi’s words, “I think we should break up.”
They sting your eyes and you find yourself choking up simply
at the sight of this piano. You look around for something, anything. Your hands
land on a steel bat the baseball team used to use. It’s freezing under your
grip as you furiously push desks, chairs and art supplies out of the way.
When the piano is close enough, you lift the bat, bringing
it down on the wood. It cracks, the boards breaking in on themselves. Before
you can stop yourself, you take out a leg, the whole masterpiece collapsing on
You don’t stop there. Furiously you beat down on the keys,
watching them fall out of place. Memories you’ve hidden bubble to the surface
and you can begin to feel his touch against you once more.
Holding the inside of your wrist, wrapped around your waist,
plump lips against your own. You remember every text, every word, every mistake.
You remember how he used to call you doll
and sing you his music. You remember watching Yoongi play the piano, soft
chords ringing in your ears.
Though your throat feels tight and tears brim in your eyes,
you continue to slam the bat onto the piano, watching as it disassembles
helplessly. You let out a scream, cracking the lip into two as a memory of your
first date surfaces. It burns in your head and you throw all your strength into
breaking the bench.
You see yourself on it next to him, his hands guiding yours
against the cold keys. The memory only spurs you to smash it more. Bits of the
leather begin ripping and cracking, the legs in shreds.
For two years, you wanted him to love you. You longed for it
in your heart and everything in you. He was your night and day, he was a sweet
candy placed between your parted lips, he was an evil tingling that sparked at
the bottom of your spine.
But all he did was play you the way his fingers delicately
played the piano.
Someone’s hands wrap around your waist from behind, pulling
you away. They assure in your ear that everything is okay. Something stings in
your neck, you begin to feel drowsy.
Voices close in around you and your body falls to the floor.
The last thing you see are the painted words:
So Arrow broke me, and then to fix me I broke myself some more. So enjoy the result of that. Also it takes place right after the episode so like don’t read if you don’t want spoilers.
He knew what he had to do. John wanted to talk, he wanted him to open up and explain his reasoning. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t be down there anymore. Not when the hood and the bow called to him to continue. He barely looked at any of them as he went to change. Only Felicity’s eyes followed him, her silence a comfort that he didn’t deserve. He didn’t deserve anyone or anything. Not anymore.
The occultist hears a scream, recognizes the voice as the homeowner’s voice, and is able to determine where the scream came from by the echos. The scientist [standing right next to the occultist] is too focused on dust dancing in the air to hear a thing.
i’m intoxicated by the way you drink up the sun, with your lips, and tongue and open palms, the warm air fills up our lungs and i long so much to touch all of the places that light drips from your skin.
i have been waiting so long
for my clumsy bones
to learn some primitive form of flight,
or at least, to find another way
across the universe.
but i have found
in tiny shivers,
on our scars
and eye flecks–
that there is already a destination,
pulsing beneath our skin.
your hands know the future of all beautiful and timid things— the old planets, blue and red and green, the oceans of grass and the waves of the sun— and in your palms i feel time quicken and beat and maybe stop,
and i know that the universe is small enough to fit into fingerprints.
this is a new morning, a new day, (crisp and blank and white) and i will carve my story into the blank pages of its skin– until my fingers bleed, until my lungs empty, until i’ve left some kind of beautiful mark.