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
He is broken in mind if not body. In appearance, he might be appealing in his own way, coat stained a purple so deep it’s practically black (only when the light catches does it betray him). The purple is new, though – before that, he was black, similar to Garbage, perhaps with a bit more refinement to his limbs.
Still, he was never particularly handsome.
There was no one in his life, no love (odd, that the child of such hopeless romantics should be so pious). There was Garbage’s head, laid across his back, a warmth – but that had been Before.
It had all been Before.
Whatever handsomeness he might have possessed was drained as his mind went to hell. He eats only sporadically now, his skin shrinks up against his ribs. His coat has lost its luster.
And inside the body – the shell – resides the howling darkness of his mind, the man asunder.
“Etro,” he repeats her name. His mind stays steady inside of him, it does not reach out. He is grounded.
(There are still memories, selves, lurking behind the curtain. But at least his wretched mind is still.)
“I’m Sleaze,” he says. The name grounds him. He wants to say it again and again because he knows there was a time when he could not, when he was someone
(something)
else.
“Etro,” he says her name again, as if saying it could unlock her, could explain her.
“You’re…” he trails off, grasps for the word, “you’re quieting.”
It’s not the right word but there’s no word for something that stills your mind when it runs from creature to creature, returns dripping in memories he does not and cannot bear to own, certainly not when he is already so torn apart, vivisected.
sleaze
cancer x garbage
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