V.V.if everyone in the world stoppedjust only for a momentthere would be no more misunderstandingsno more warno more children dying in an unknown landto feed the rich man's greed.but the thing is we don't want tostop that isstop thinkingstop speakingstop hatingbecause it's easier to bury yourselfin the usual bullshit liesthen face the person staring backwith pallor skin and bloodshot eyes.
Jason Todd - RedThe floor of the warehouse is cool and slightly damp under his cheek. He clings to this. He feels like this is important, feels as if he can still focus on this small, insignificant detail then he’s still alive. Turning his head away from the ground he looks up at the ceiling. Instead he sees a blur of purple and green and steel, braces himself for what he knows is coming next and-SNAP!The crowbar makes solid contact with one of his ribs and he cries out, his body curling in on itself to try and stop the agony that explodes throughout his insides like a supernova. He exhales weakly, the sound more of a wheeze than anything, and he watches through half focused eyes as blood splatters from his lips onto the ground.Where’s Bruce? He thinks. He wants Bruce. He can’t help it; ashamed he begins to cry, the tears making a straight path down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat and blood that covers his face.The sound of his short, hiccuped breathing isn’t he
IV.IV.I want to start a revolutioninside your heart where yourdreams are kept, each pulsing beatlike a drum as it moves fasterand fasterin time with my own.I'll trace words of propagandaacross your chest andbetween the valley of your hipsand each scrawling letterwill sparka fire in our souls.
III.III.to be or not to bethat is the questionbut is it;or should it bewhether or notto loveto hateto singto cryto prayto drawto laughto eatto danceto writeto createto doand not just simply be?
II.II.I have already memorizedthe slant of your noseand that single freckle that sits off to the sidethe one you swear doesn't exist butI know it's there, the very sameshade as your eyes.I still have to think to rememberthe outline of your lipsas I trace them with my ownand how the tip of your tongue tastes always like summerfumbling nervousness and lingering vanilla whichis inexplicably you.I am working on learningthe curve of your neckthe number of spaces between your ribswhere your erratic-beating heart is nestledand the sound of your sharp intake of breath you give as Ifind your hips.
I.I.she is small and weakamong many other unnamed thingspale skin stretched over too-narrow bonesveins paper thin.she spreads her armsout like a bird; weightlessexcept for her heart which drags herdown to the floor.full of her fears and needsburied by triumphs and disappointmentsswallowed by short-lived happinessand heartache.but when she shuts her eyesagainst the flood of doubt that consumeseverything; she can almostfly.
thirteen letters[I]I associate you with stale coffee, pine, and cranberries. I can't smell any of the three without recalling your worn, green cushioned chair and the way you'd sit me on your lap, the stubble on your chin tickling my cheeks. and I can't listen to the sound of a rushing creek without hearing the sound of your raspy voice, accompanied with the smile that was always in it.to some your speech was difficult to understand, and their eyes always seemed to wander to that piece of fabric tied methodically around your throat - but I always knew what you were trying to tell me, even when you didn't speak.I like to think I alone inherited that small part of you- everyone else seems to have gotten your eyes, your nose, your chin -but I got the part of you that wasn't visible, or even tangible.because sometimes I'll be sitting in a crowded room of people listening to the conversations going on around me and I realize I haven't spoken a single word. and with that realization I come to the conclu