Bad Birds ▪︎ Prose (1)

36. Author prologue; dedication to our losses

Be aggressive. Be ultraviolent. Be over reactive. Be unbroken. Be fearless. Be real. Be honest. Be tormenting.

You wrote the words to be a manuscript to read in screams, yells and wails. You wrote in silence but it felt like a crime. Bodiless and Bloodless. Yet you took your own vail down that night. You killed a soul to see the reality fit like a glove around your achromatic-cut hands.

YOUR WRITTEN REALITY

Your darlings to kill without a reason. Your birthday present to be the head of your ex. Your white lies and fiendish mischief to god, yourself and others. That thing you wrote was your open court for 'me' the crazy. Whatever. To take the wheel, lead the way into their confusion, suck their turmoil just because I fed on their deception, their broken halo of humanity. Deeply I just loved being the deceiver.

You can't deceive the deceiver.

The antagonists knows it. All fathers do.

YOUR ALTERED REALITY

You wrote me on the pages in rage in remorse in love with the shape you wanted to be so badly but couldn't, hadn't the faith in evil to do it properly.
Little did you know line after line until the pen dried birthing me from paper to life demanded the devil herself.
Now you know why I always crawled back to you every time I got too far falling in love with their love for life. You were there my mother writing me. My story. Wanted me enought to make me love death as much as they loved life. You made me fall in love with you. Made yourself my first love. Made yourself love yourself.

That's when I fell in lethal. That's when the story ended.

Be silent. Be cute. Be ruled. Be pure. Be controlled. Be motherly. Be caring. Be obedient. Be teethless.

This wasn't what you wrote to be 'you' . This was the pen and the journal you didn't choose to pick this was the story who wrote 'she was alive' and succeeded to drag you out of heaven. The beginning. The ending.
The story of the dead. Your story.

Publishing your spirit down the libraries of pointless minds to pick you up where you fell apart like the spineless book you were. Treated half the measure, worthed less than the story you told.

Boring story. Get lost in dust. Get fucked.

No one ever enjoyed a book with a sad ending.

THE BOOK OF PEN-BREAKER WRITER OF REALITIES

You slept six feet under for so long. Had the fair share of two lifetimes perfecting the art of pain. In that reality you had the first hand harshness, played with her like a half-sister only to be treated like a close stranger.
In that art you saw collateral damage, beauty in the semicolon for taking a rest rather than an end.

The rifle charged to shoot the biggest plot twist to the face of fate

The written rises writer. The dead comes alive in another reality

YOU WENT FOR THE KILL DEATH IN YOUR POCKET TELLING ME COME FUCKING ALIVE