pretty chapped lips : malum :

0.5

I knew after that day that he wasn't a dream. At least, I believed him not to be.

I didn't tell my father I saw the boy time and time again as I knew the words he'd speak. "I know you're a faggot, but now you're mental too? You're some kind of failure, but no wonder since your mother made you."

My father was a tough man, maybe we could boarder it upon cruel. I was his punching bag, my mother just a fool. I loved her with all my heart, but for him there was none to give. After all, why give a part of my heart to a man who'd only give me a bloody lip in return.

My life was a wreak, or maybe it was fine. In my eyes being a verbal punching bag was a fate I feel no one should have, but maybe I have it easy and im taking for granted the things that I am luck enough to have.

But on occasion, I could forget about my my life. I could forget about the sadness, forget about the rage. Forget about the pushandpull of negativity that surrounds my life like a thick ash cloud. Because, on those so very few occasions, a pair of pretty chapped lips and dull dark eyes would invade my mind.

When I saw him it was like i was someone else. Like i wasn't a sixteen year old hiding a black eye behind his mothers make up and flinching at his fathers words. It was like I wasn't even there at all in those few moments where I could watch him. He was like some rare beauty, an animal on the verge of extinction and my eyes were one of the few pairs blessed to see.

But sadly, just as you would to those rare beauties, I could ever approach. I would watch him from afar, my face hidden in the shadows and my knees pulled to my chest as I watch him dancing in the moonlight.

Whenever his fingers fluttered through the air as his feet carried him along the cracked tarmac with that smile like ecstasy on his lips, I would hide. I wanted to get closer, to not have to strain my eyes in the dim light to see the way his lips curved and how they parted with each breath and word. I could see each sighandhum, almost fooling myself into knowing the sound that I could barely hear. But I knew I couldn't walk closer, I couldn't go anywhere near him encase my presents became known. Though to him I have never spoken a word, and I have never seen anyone else for that matter: I feared I knew his reaction.

I feared the reality of the way his hands were fall to his sides and the corners of his lips would drop. And that was something I could not risk.

But it was so hard to hide. It was so hard to stick to the shadows whenever I watched him walk by with that dark cloud covering him as it does far too often. I wanted nothing more than to walk out to him, reach out and pluck the cigarette from his lips that curled around it as if it belonged there; as if it didn't ruining the soft tones of his beauty, the ethereal feeling that clung to his body with its harsh reality. It made my stomach tie itself into knots the way he would stand in the middle of the road, hands by his sides as he waited for something to come to give him peace of mind in such a way I could not seem to understand no matter how many sleepless nights I spent asking myself how and why.

But I stuck to the shadows for more reasons than one as I watched him move through life, brushing so close to death as my fathers words would ring in my ears.

"I wish you had never been born."

-

A/N so, michaels pretty sure he's not insane anymore, fun times.

how are you guys feeling about this so far, good, bad, nothing? i'm actually pretty curious to know.

remember to comment, vote and all that fun stuff

- rachel x