ALT It’s as clear as life could be to our remarkably frail, little hearts: we’re a paradox, you and I. Fyr.
ALT The Final Glass Penned by Fyr (Full text didn’t fit on next photo so I put it here.) You never know desperation ‘til you witness your wits’ end. You never know brokenness ‘til you experience crashing down headfirst on the cold, hard ground of the hellish pits of rock bottom. I never really knew those two things. I never noticed its ghosts silently creeping up on me.
ALT “Let me down one more time.” I said, voice cracking. “Let me down one more fucking time!” I bellowed. The further strains of anguish seeping through my throat punctuated my every word as I chugged the last of the alcohol before hurling it across the room. The sound of it mocked me with a grin as the shards blended in with my broken dreams to make some kind of twisted cocktail. A bitter sneer adorned my lips as I returned the gaze towards the shatterfield—a humorless chuckle was about to escape my throat. But a quiet sob ripped me away from all reality. My attention was drawn towards the last little frame standing on my tiny, almost-empty bedside. It was then I realized: I never knew those two things until I dug the grave too deep. Here it was, staring right at me with eyes blown wide, tears decorating its features; all the while I threatened to twist the knife further, further, further. “Don’t give up on me, too.”
ALT The Fruit of His Wreckage Penned by Fyr (Some paragraphs don’t fit in assigned images so I cut and placed them in prior pages) I wonder if the ghost of your crimes trail behind your every step. I wonder if your shadow will forever be able to bear the weight of the bloodied and bruised world you have enkindled. I wonder if your fall from grace was feathered and light to the touch. I wonder if you ever trip or trample on the missteps of your immortalized mistakes. I wonder if you ever hear the whispered shrieks and sobs of those whom you have left eternally wronged, deathly and deathlessly scarred.
ALT I wonder if you know at least a fraction of how it feels to be kissed on the forehead by your revered betrayal. How it feels to be enveloped in your warmest but most deceivingly effective embrace. How your sweetest lies would taste on the lips. How your voice and words would sound as gospel by the easy marks and dupes you have made of us. How it feels to be spared and left with not a fresh wound, but a supposedly healed scar, and a solemn smile. And how it feels when you come knocking softly, only to be shamelessly stabbed right on the front—harder. Worse than the first, unparalleled to the last. Add in your mythical smile, too. So let me stitch the image for you. I bolt barefoot and crawl crippled for you, because of you. You find me and give me multiple reasons to plead, weep, and genuflect at rockbottom—then come your gracious glance. You embellish your entirety in every fiber of my being; mind, body, and soul. You tattooed yourself: my almighty, immaculate, sick savior.
ALT You assure me that everything is fine. Then you take flight with me to the highest heavens, hurl me, but leave me mid-air, and I land back in the same prison of soundly insane nihility from long ago. Yet it hurts a million times more. You have broken the bone and marrows of my trust a million times. And in likeness to the forgiving father to his prodigal son, I always throw feasts upon your faux repentance, your sinful return. But now, I shall no longer play the fool card for you and have you misuse and break me again and again and again; no, no more of that. Not anymore. Thus, savor your final empty applause as you let your red curtains fall. And as the crowds depart, I wish the murmurs of the cities you have let ruin will forever haunt you in even your most golden hours. This is neither favor nor demand, but the rightful reckoning for your sins. You play with fire and play with life, your ultimate death shall be the last price.
ALT Gospel Penned by Fyr
ALT I loathe you. Utterly, irrevocably so. And you would want to kill me as much, that I know. And lovingly loveless I am. I will always tell you through my tears and tears: I would willingly die countless times in countless ways absolutely, solely, and only if it was by you. Half the time, I would simply wish to throw all our limits away and out the window, kick off the bucket. Then fictionally, fantastically, magically, miraculously burn every kingdom down with you. From the lowest of clouds, the highest of fires, and all in between—I will do anything for you. Bleed for you, kiss death on the feet for you, drown in holy water for you, walk barefoot on glass for you. That is how I loathe. That is how reckless and insane I was, how we were, more so we could be. These twisted vows: our eternal homily.
