in a dead language - vmon

v.

The first and only time you tell me you're scared, I kiss you and say, "I'm happy to hear this. It means that deep down, you want more."

I know it's the wrong thing to say when you push me away without thinking twice about the way I just kissed you.

"Of course I want more," you say, like it's the most obvious thing in the world when it's not. "I'm selfish."

"You're selfless. Your selflessness will kill you someday."

"They will kill me someday," you say, like it's written in stone and meant to be, like it's already woven into the canvas of history.

"And you're scared of that?" I ask. "You're scared that maybe you won't survive? You will."

We won't end in a tragedy, remember?

"Jimin didn't."

"I know."

"How can I survive when Jimin hasn't?" You ask. "How do I get to survive when Jimin doesn't?"

"Don't let guilt eat you alive when you're not even guilty," I beg. "Don't let guilt kill you when you survive, because I know you will, and I know it will haunt you."

You look into my eyes and it hits me that you're standing close enough for our shoulders to touch, and maybe I haven't said the wrong thing because the only reason you push me away is to pull me closer.

"Are you scared, too?" You ask again, so quiet I can barely hear you. It's okay, because I can feel your words before they leave your heart.

"I am. And I'm scared for you," I confess, and I hope it's not the wrong thing to say — I really fucking hope it's not because you need reassurance that you'll survive but I can't prevent the truth from coming out. The dam broke the moment you confessed a truth you always covered up with a perfect mixture of fantasy and pride, an illusion you yourself believe in. "But I know, deep within my soul, you'll be okay. I just want you to want that too and your fear means this is what you do want."

"I do want that," you say. "I want more. I want us to be more than a tragedy and I want my life to be more than— than [this.] I want to fight for freedom and I want to die for it, but I also want to live it. And I'm scared."

I believe you, even though you've never shown true fear. I know you're always afraid, even when your eyes glow with mania and your lips stretch into a sinful smirk or a mischievous grin. I know you're always afraid, whether you're high on adrenaline or sated and drowned in bliss.

You're terrified that you won't survive and that you'll end up just another martyr to a cause you'll never get to reap the fruit of, and you're terrified that you'll survive even if everyone around you falls like raindrops and dead leaves.

I get it; some people are scared of dying. Others are scared of living. We are both, and we're stuck with contradictions fighting inside of us like summer rainstorms and winter forest fires.

(Sometimes I'm terrified of existing for a long time only to go out in the end like a burnt lightbulb, like a broken radio, like an item that outlived its era by surviving on a shelf, either unused or drained dead.)

"And I'm scared for you, Joonie," you say, and you kiss me before I could ask you why.