[open] Can you hear what I hear?

[Pentecost]

Do you want to know why I use a knife?
Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the...
little emotions. In... You see, in their
last moments, people show you who they
really are. So, in a way, I know your friends
better than you ever did.

She is ecstasy to him. He doesn’t know it yet; the thrill, the rush, the vibe, the feel. He doesn’t know that she will set a new standard of high, the petty things previous are and were over the minute her glow touched his ebony eyes. It’s irrational, and dumbfounding. Everything about it screams wrong, but something about the two star-kissed creatures under the oncoming blanket of night sky seemed unfathomably right. She is ecstasy to him because she has lit a spark of curiosity in an otherwise very dark space. A space where two pieces of him fought over the switch, fought over who he should be that day. It left him awake at night once the thoughts had finally fallen mute, wondering who he really was. Who he was meant to be? And she gives him brief fleeting moments of clarity. The vibrations of touch come back to surface, the depth of sound tickle at his ears. I notice the influence I have on her as she recoils back into her shell; a second, yes, but she didn’t conceal it well. I feel a pulse of power, a radiation from deep in my chest that spreads across my stomach. It dissipates though as her confidence resurfaces. It falls away, allowing room for a different kind of warmth to boil. A comfortable, confidence that matches her own aura; a savory, unique sort of taste. “No,” I offer with a softness that awakens the space left between us, “the pleasure is mine.” Why are you being nice? She will see the real you, soon. A threat: a coolness drips through my ears and down into my neck, an uncomfortable remark meant to leave a lasting impression. I beg for silence; a break from what I am sure is described as insanity. A feeling of complete and utter helplessness, when not even the company of her—with intoxicating air and a voice comparable to the soothing tunes of piano lullabies—is able to save me. Her question leaves me speechless, because I do burn. I burn every minute of every day. I burn every time the voice in my head awakes with ferocious flames, inhaling every inch of consciousness and sanity of my mind and leaving charcoaled blackness and death. I feel myself die; I see my views change and shift into things I cannot quiet explain or ignore. I watch as my memories begin to morph, and my paranoia grow with demand for attention. An uncontrollable, unpredictable fire so strong and so vicious it’s taken every last part of… Me. “I burn,” I nod, a somber cloud of emotion and depth hangs and I feel the weight of my words and how much they mean. She has allowed me to transform, my transparency glowing in how I offer myself to her; vulnerable. “Do you scar?” I ask sincerely, because I did. I scarred with every insult and every judgement. I could tell you about the scar that stole my confidence. I could tell you about the scar from when I lost my trust. Or, the one from when I forgot who I was. That one hurt. But, would she believe me? Would she believe the secret demons that plagued my brain? Would she be able to stand by and watch as insanity ate every last inch of life from me? Can she ignore the mania? The hysteria? The absurdity? She will never believe you, Pentecost. The truth hits hard, an uncomfortable reality bestows me. IT is right, why would she? I am no more familiar to her than the bird sitting idle on the tree to our right. It’s ignorance to our euphoric energy refreshing to me; this is our world, and our space, for now.

PENTECOST

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHO WERE COWARDS?

@[leonora]