cigarette smoke.

follow little lamb

WHUMPTOBER NO. 3

MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY―

manhandled | forced to their knees | held at gunpoint

not all birds are as free as that appear [he of course is, clipped wings and all―aren't these gilded bars pretty?]. he's even better than he was before―split lips, there's a scar around his eye when they tried to rub his markings off when he first arrived; there are needle marks on his arms and burns under his jacket, there are clumps of skin that look off and places where his feathers are numb -- he owes hundreds and thousands and millions for something he was forced into―

sometimes he thinks it's good -- it really is, y'know? (mama's gonna sing you a lul-la-bye) & he's tipsy on the praise of civilians and all those who promise to love him. 's long as he's human and not feral (& he tucks away the monster so that it may lay waste to the shadows by it's lonesome). less him more them; shut down & re-re-reset; again again again―crack open by black talons & heavy hearts dipped in moonshine - drunk on the affection of those who've never loved us - the real him, the real me, the real you. bitter and breaking and made of the lava that threatens to swallow him whole. fate and her cruel hands tear the black away from his toenails, rip the scales from his legs & paint a smile on his perfectly broken face: oh to be human. cuthroat & dry and hungry for the attention he'll never get in any life.

they drag him to the pits of hell & tell him that if he doesn't do better than best he'll stay. hawks are birds of prey & he's nothing but a songbird - melted wings of wax―they hold him by the throat and tell him to fly harder and faster & stronger&smarter&better do better. he's sleeping on someone else's time & the guilt never stops him from keeping the wrong eyelids closed [second pair, third one, not human, not human] monster dipped in blood and the organs of fates long gone hands. apollo in all his glory is nothing but a fool that is chained to the earth. sunshine streams through ever-living/never-dying crops and orange skin. 

hold him by the chest-arms-wings-hair-neck-back and tell him he's worthless 'til the day he dies from the moment he's born. 'cuz he's borne of gold-hair & gold eyes and bloodied wings & burning bodies & maybe that's why he likes the fire so much, that's why he likes the danger & the risk of causterized wounds and scarred hands. grape skin and smokey teeth tell him he's too godly for that of human blood but he's [not] on a mission so he lies and tells him that his childhood and boyhood and manhood are all in the palms of a greater evil that when he was a fledgling they clipped his wings and threw him over the ocean and told him to fly or he'd drown. fire wraps around him & it's the same color as his eyes. burning with passion and red-blue fire, swirling in azure and he'd die if he couldn't handle the pain. 

(  oh to be a hero;  )

the sky will fall and hands will sink into oblivion and all the moons will turn to dust―in my heart [if there is one, whatever is left] the stars will crash to supernova's in his mind and he will burn as his feathers have over and over. he'll hath no wrath like a broken mind & the man with silver glinting off his skin is chock full of anger & hate at ― what to him [not the bird] ― might as well be the devil incarnate. 

―there is a child in his soul―

(  the mighty must fall;  )

―shattered and restless―

it is his birthright to usurp a god. but he is nothing but a mortal in gilded skin in a flanex prison.

(  the dead may rise from the fires of the underworld, oh how the reaper weeps.  )

the man with fire too hot for his skin and eyes that are red-blue set his wings free & melts the chains to his golden cage, he flies free, if only for a moment. (the sun eats away at him until he's nothing but mortal.)