the solar system || johnlock ||

neptune

The rain whispers fogged secrets onto the side of my face; mist permeates glass as the storms rage on outside. This is the only time I find myself being truthful to myself.

The bus jostles me from side to side, and I feel nothing but empty. Numb, void, empty.

I

want

love.

I want love from him, and I want to love him, but I am not sure I know how to.

"Sherlock," he says, "do you have something you want to tell me?"

The answer is yes. Yes, I want to tell you something.

But the truth is: this wild ocean shakes the remnants of me loose; and there is nothing but pitch black inside of me. Cut me open from shoulder to hip, and it is a starless sky, a black hole.

And John is my sun, but he's so distant. I feel him, I feel his gravity still roping me in, but the orbit he leads me on is bound to implode and explode all at once. I can barely feel his breathy sighs, I can barely hear his golden voice.

I navigate this treacherous sea with a conscience painted pale blue; the ink of my personality runs watery and it sucked into the drainage, along with the blackish-grey of my eye pencil. Again.

If brokenness is a form of art, surely this must be my masterpiece.

All I see is fresh tattoos and stained glass; all I hear is the blood roaring in my ears; all I feel is longing.

But I am so distant. He is so distant.

He may as well disappear.

I don't need him to help steer my little sailboat. This cheap wood, this tired white flag; it's all I have.

They are all that awaits me, in the end. I cannot be blamed.

$∆L

stitch by stitch i tear apart
if brokenness is a form of art

i must be a poster child prodigy