if the heavens ever did speak
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
Even he does not fully realize the danger in him, that the possession would be the ability to touch others minds, control their bodies. He could send them over cliffs, into the ocean. He does not know this, he barely controls the trait – it is a feral thing, wild and unpredictable, and it’s all he can do to coexist with it.
He is grateful to not know her mind, for whatever reason. Grateful not to have shards of her memories and thoughts poking into him, coloring their conversation in ways it would not otherwise be colored.
This is pure, in a way. He never realized the purity that exists when each creature’s mind is their own.
“Something happened,” he says, clarifies, “to me. Time’s missing, something happened, and when time came back I was like this.”
Like this -- colored purple, colored mad, mind hazy with queer thoughts dancing at the periphery.
“There are…things,” he continues. The story is a strange one to tell, “things I can’t recall. They’re a blur. And when I think about them it’s just…just purple.”
Purple like a curtain, sweeping down to hide the memories. Ah, but some creep out, and exists like talismans in his mind, scraps of memories, though whether they’re real or imagined is still unknown to him.
What is your dream, she asks, and he wonders. She continues on and he lets her, hears the sadness in her voice.
“Why can’t you?” he asks, curious. He cannot go home, either, but that’s because home was a mossy meadow, home was Garbage, and neither of those things exist anymore.
“My dream is to be whole,” he says, “I don’t want to be fractured like this forever.”
Perhaps it’s less a dream and more of a confession of fear: the terror that this is his lot, and that he will not survive it, not like this.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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