Philza Oneshots

hydrangea. (?)

his hands raised infront of him, he struggled to focus.

"you're so bad that it feels creepy."

were these the voices techno had alwyas described? sinister things, whisperinf in the back of his mind like parasites and controlling his every movement, as if his body were not his own any longer.

"things like meaning are already in the bottom of a dustcart."

his own thoughts were scrambled like eggs in a pan, or like paperwork on a desk. there was no coherent order to them, only chaos.

"voices of the world are still begging for life,"

why was he still here? standing as if nothing had happened, holding a flower close to his heart as if it may be dragged away in the wind if his grip were too loose.

"and yelling 'shut up', here floats my sight in zero chromas."

he barely registered the colours around him and the people's chatter when he was around any at all. why should he be? he has no purpose to be.

"i get goosebumps at your self-righteous kindness, since it's merely opportunism."

why did they still see him the way he did? did his actions not change his image in their mind's eye? wasn't it supposed to?

"with that standard you made by imitating and copying 'common sense', the society says,"

adopting an image of stability and care, he was sure he'd crack at the slightest touch, and he almost did when the only other person who'd remind him of him touched his shoulder so gently, making him want to cry out and scream in frustration.

"you measured my heart."

and he made small talk as he always did. and as he always would continue to do, until the day came where he must take his turn, too.

"heyyy, listen to me,"

the voice inside wanted to scream at the world for them to just listen to him for once. listen to his concerns and worries and make it all go away, just make it go away, please.

"i just hate you!"

he hates them all. every single one. he wants destruction but can't find the strength. he wants chaos but is too cowardly to make the first move, not without his backbone.

"so, pleaaaaaaaaaaaase don't look at my face,"

he wanted to cover his bare skin in porcelain in attempts to hide his sins and in hopes of creating a shelter for his own state.

"just finish this without saying a word."

conversations never worked the same anymore. what happend to his composure? he felt he could no longer speak without cracks in his marble voice, the one he so tenderly built to hide it all.

"yes, you lose no time in telling an honest lie."

oh, what a liar, what a liar he is! how delightful it is to lie convincingly, oh the glee! he wanted to tear it all to shreds. every single truth about himself.

until maybe they could finally see the real truth and stop driving him up the wall by acting accordingly?

"and answering 'yes' to every question."

he lost the ability to converse properly and no one wanted to engage any longer. he would respond yes to open questions and receive suspecting looks that inferred sorrow in his already fragile heart. soon, they could finally despise him for what he was.

"the gray of the asphalt crawling in my windpipe will recall the frozen petrichor."

finally, rain. oh how he missed the feeling of the sting of rain on his midnight feathers and his bare hands and head as his hat lay at his side. and he stared into the clouds for something to be seen, anything, even if he wasn't sure exactly what.