MARCH had the voice of a siren and spirit of a lost sailor, whiskey brown eyes haunted by hallways of abandoned castles. kissing her lips used to feel like digging your teeth into the flesh of clementines. you'd always find her sitting on the steps of the old manor house, in soft collared shirts and tweed blazers she stole from her father, a curiously battered book cradled in her arms. sunlight would scatter across the pavement below her and her hands would quiver while turning pages. she loved blending into the suburbia's landscape of chalcedony strokes and disappearing at the other end of the town, an aimless wisp of smoke and faint nostalgia drifting amidst crowds, wondering what would happen if she ever went missing. would anybody be kind enough to notice her disappearance, kind enough to worry? would she matter to someone, anyone? the question ate her out and made her hollow until she lost herself in soft tragedy. now, march is a body under the open skies, waiting for someone to discover her, discover the crime.
AUGUST had the laugh of a lifeless storm, an amalgamation of unexplainable wonders injected with mercury-filled frustration, they were a ghost whose gaze always wandered back to march and the words she'd said under the sun-dappled rose gold sky, hands cupping august's chin. there was a noir film that played out in the cyanide swirls of their eyes, where they were both the criminal and the victim. you'd find them in one of the empty classrooms at school, whichever smelled more like esters and cocktail, dressed in denim and tattered old school vans with their nose sore from the odour of sulphide compounds and a can of cherry cola crushed in their fist. their life was one big problem circled in black ink and taped to the plastic caps of bottles filled with red and blue pills; they used to think they had control over it. the final crack in their life only ever showed in the silence that followed when they asked themself who they were. a girl, a boy, a god, a sinner? couldn't they be something else? couldn't they change themself?
NOVEMBER had the face of a stabbed man in a neoclassical painting, lightening and blood mixing in his veins and waxing crescent moons stamped onto his collarbone by ex-lovers. his eyes were shards of obsidian glass arranged into a starless sky, and his hands were always shaky, like a post-earthquake tremor. everything he held slipped through the cracks and broke into shatters. all his charcoal pencils did was draw smudged, wobbly faces that faded over time, and the acrylic color on his palettes dried away before he could do anything with them. he stopped loving art the day it brought him down to his knees. on some nights, you'd find him at the beach, sitting atop limestone cliffs with a torn canvas fitted into his easel, and empty paint tubes littered around, hours passing by without him touching the paintbrush. truth was, he just came there to weep. for his muse didn't exist anymore, and life was no longer a notion streaked in technicolor; it was an event that he wished would pass away quickly. but it didn't; and perhaps that was his least prized conquest.
─ STRANGELY TOGETHER
TO OUR DOOM WE GO.
(rainer maria rilke)
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HI. it's finished. march mist is done. we won the war.
i can finally stop troubling yall with updates here (༎ຶ⌑༎ຶ)
