cherry.distortion.

the taste was sweet, intoxicating even as it lingered on his lips. his fingers, painted a crimson violet, left incriminating prints on the refrigerator, on the counter, on the kitchen knife, on the screen door...

the call for help muffled as his tongue tied itself up in knots, just like the cherry stem.

the taste was sour, bitter as it stained his conscience. the call for the ambulance would go unheard, already useless in the situation as the fingerprints were the only evidence of his forsaken, murdered childhood on the warm summer's day.

fragmented.Tomi.Zero.

The sound of the drops hitting the window, the windshield wipers working overtime for the child to be able to wander the worn streets alone through the monsoon. Keeping in time with the passing cars and remaining oblivious to the questioning stares and ignorant glares as they slow down as if they were observing a horrific car wreck. Not a word, of comfort or curiosity. Mute, with the silent screams and objections echoing off the boundaries of the caged mind. 

Tomi Zero. The new student in the front of the room, not much spoken with the jacket, unruly hair, and lanky form outlined in kohl speaking volumes for his character. Appearing in the flickering flame, vanishing in the swirling smoke rising from the cigarette not yet crushed under his black boots. The rockstar in the loner's eyes. 

The blades grating on the concrete; the sweat mixed with tears mixed with anxiety and blame. Aching muscles call out for collapse. The wheels keep spinning until the inevitable face first stop courtesy of the pavement. Brush burned knees and elbows sting nothing compared with pride and personality. 

Tomi Zero. Null and void. The hero just as ignored. The bystander in the crowd just as unimpressed. Unimportant enough to be ignored, important enough to be idolized. Built up in the loner's eyes. 

The clock running down, reality ruling the calendar, the blizzard quickly approaching. Medication out of refills; the shrink too immersed in their own confusion to condemn and prescribe. What's real, what's fake, when everything's inside your head?

remix.dance-edit-dance

i dont know what im writing anymore. just that writing acts as the de-clutter-ization of my hectic mind and a strike against my confidence when nothing comes out  perfect translation and the words just stumble along. i dont know what im dreaming anymore. your face forever gone and haunting awkward hours. no chance of a crash refresher course. the pencil lines disappeared into a sea of torn pink eraser pieces while the permanent marker remains as bold as ever, if not even more noticeable than before. before the massacre of closure. gambled that chance, now any chance for strip poker? there's not much left to take, insanity already beat you to it. im gonna miss me when im gone, when i completely belong to a figment of my own imagination.