He wrote poems by light of his screen. A screen like that at which he'd always stared. A cracked and crumbling poet, crafting words to wreck the world. To break the already broken world into tinier pieces. Or maybe to heal the world, maybe to mend its scrapes and sprained ankles. It's how he'd have liked to think, that his little stories written in his dark room had some power, some magic. He wished in some back corner of his mind that his words would be like paint, each letter a new color, that none had laid eyes on. Colors that could rip into reality itself, and perhaps make some teen closed up in a room like his own feel a bit less alone. No, that was a lie. He didn't care whether he made any feel less alone, what he wanted was for one like that to tell him they understood his words, to make him feel a little less out of his mind. Often, he would lie on his back in that room, on his soft, black rug, and he would stare up at the softly glowing stars, stuck up when his life had barely begun. He'd squeeze his hands in fists until his palms hurt from his long nails. He wouldn't cry, he never cried, he'd just ache. He'd feel like screaming, it would be as silent as ever. His eyes would close, and the darkness would embrace him, the same embrace he'd always known, somehow both cold and warm. Then he'd go back to his screen, and he'd write his poems. It never made him feel better, just salt in old wounds. But it was his nature, he was a poet. He was a poet before he could write, he was a poet when he hated poetry, he was a poet all those nights in his dark room, when he stared at his blood in the sink, when he blew smoke, and he was a poet as he stood on the edge. The end of his story is yet to come, but it's been scripted for him, by him, in his words that he wishes would wreck the world.
