he’s festering like a wound. this he knows, but to this he does not make an effort to move, or wash himself down with burning alcohol, or whatever else wounds do to cope & stop festering without bandaids (in the shape of hands). so instead, he’s waking nightly, bleeding pus in tears, until all he can feel is the weight of grief a baggage so tearing & consuming that he wonders if wounds can be cut too.

he & You were always violent, violent creatures. both of you are (one, were) quiet in the way predators are: heavy teeth behind sly sharp eyes. You could’ve been a hyena with your laughs still following his dreams, he is the panther or maybe the cheetah in a coat of black & love. and now, here is where the difference comes in stitches across his forehead in the shape of a hole:

You were always violent like You didn’t know how to live. You were always violent like You were taught to kill before You were taught to eat, taught to maim as You learnt to breathe, taught to die in the strictly meta sense; and here is another difference.

he thinks You died meta. You think this death was living.

“I’m making a choice here,” He says, on night of the second. He stayed over because, well.

“You’re fine with this, and just, going.” he whispers, monotone. he isn’t a predator; not now.

“I am,” He responds, because He tries to tell the truth more, seeing as he gave Him his. then, a moment of silence. “are you?”

“fucking-” he tears his fingers into his hair, mussing it, ripping at it, not a violent thing, but He can only think about it violently. there was blood there, once. “no. no, no. but you are.” and we bleed for each other, cry for each other, and stay strong for each other. the thing is,

he’s festering like a wound. grief is a baggage that cuts wounds. altruism was real until You left. You’re watching him and instead of learning pity You’re learning to die. You watch him cry into his palms in the bed You once were. grief is a baggage that cuts wounds. Your hands were the smoke, the gun, the bullet, and the jury. Your life dealt the blow and Your words were the knife. now that the blow is gone, he’s a wound festering.

You are watching a story without a conclusion.