Title: Just A Kid
Author: Masque/ Sinewa
Warnings: language, but if you've seen the movie this isn't a problem. Angst.
Notes: um, after one review, I should say this isn't what the title implies. It made sense to me anyway…
Disclaimer: there is one line in here that obviously doesn't belong to me. I'm horrible with artists and song titles, so, not mine. And I only wish the characters belonged to me, I'd have given them a much happier ending.
*****
So fucking beautiful.
My heart stops, my soul cries, and I want to go down on my knees to worship my angry god of passion.
But I don't.
Instead I walk away, pretend indifference, and act like all I wanted was confirmation that I don't really want him.
But I do. More than I want to fucking breathe.
I'm hard and lonely and tired and trembling and crying and bleeding and is there a bloody cigarette anywhere in this city?
One month. Clean for one whole month. I want to float away in the blissful haze of drug induced memory. But I want him more. Real, in my arms, holding me, fucking me, kissing me, loving me. Even if I don't deserve him, I can't stop wanting. I'm not sure which is worse, the pain of withdrawal, or knowing I had everything I wanted and threw it away. Threw him away.
Curt…
I hear his anguished cries splitting open my heart and know exactly which is worse.
Fuck.
This isn't some soap opera where I can go back and beg his forgiveness and he looks into my eyes and I fall into him and the world lives happily ever after. I wish it were. Actually, no. I don't. Because then it would be perfect and real love isn't perfect. Images are perfect.
Image is being untouchable and unreachable. Image is a two dimensional picture that is open for any and all to judge, celebrate, condemn.
Image forbids cracks and flaws, vulnerability, asking and needing.
A man's life is his image. I never wondered why Curt frowned when I said that. But then I wouldn't have asked him. I was Maxwell Demon and that Image didn't need to ask anyone anything. Didn't *need* at all.
Killing him was one of the most euphoric moments of my life.
I have dozens of flaws. I *am* vulnerable. I have a thousand questions I should have asked. And I *need* Curt Wild. His touch, his dreams, his mouth, his fears, his voice, his flaws, his love.
I hope he has a minute to talk to a kid from Birmingham named Brian.
*****
Love lies bleeding in my hands.
I walked away, angry, silently begging him to stop me, to hit me, hurt me, love me, want me. But I wanted too much. Always want too much. My Demon. My Angel.
Brian…
I fucked up.
My lover, my soul, tearing down the walls that keep everyone else out, taking away the pain of simply breathing, seeing the needy kid whose eyes burn with hunger, craving, for the slightest bit of kindness, and giving it to me a thousand times over.
I just wanted him. Not that illusion he created, just him. Was it really too much to ask for?
Shit.
What I wouldn't give for a fucking hit. Anything to take away the screaming rage and self-hatred, a dull knife sawing through flesh and bone, dragging slowly back and forth, nothing but agony and aching emptiness, until I can see my heart beating, bleeding, stopping.
*Never* ask for anything. *Never* need anything. *Never* want anything. 'Cause God knows I'm certainly not worthy of it.
*Brian* is different. In some fucked up way, I doubt I would've been able to love him or have the strength to leave him if I'd never met him.
Images fade, but memories... the way he nibbles on his lower lip when he's nervous, or chews his fingernail when he's scared, or cocks his eyebrow when he wants to hide behind that mask. I love those bits 'n pieces of him. And he hated me for seeing them.
Shattering glass, breaking mirror, killing image…dying slowly.
I *need* him. I'd give him everything, anything if he asked. But why would he? Who wants a piece of trash kid from the wrong side of nowhere?
Author: Masque/ Sinewa
Warnings: language, but if you've seen the movie this isn't a problem. Angst.
Notes: um, after one review, I should say this isn't what the title implies. It made sense to me anyway…
Disclaimer: there is one line in here that obviously doesn't belong to me. I'm horrible with artists and song titles, so, not mine. And I only wish the characters belonged to me, I'd have given them a much happier ending.
*****
So fucking beautiful.
My heart stops, my soul cries, and I want to go down on my knees to worship my angry god of passion.
But I don't.
Instead I walk away, pretend indifference, and act like all I wanted was confirmation that I don't really want him.
But I do. More than I want to fucking breathe.
I'm hard and lonely and tired and trembling and crying and bleeding and is there a bloody cigarette anywhere in this city?
One month. Clean for one whole month. I want to float away in the blissful haze of drug induced memory. But I want him more. Real, in my arms, holding me, fucking me, kissing me, loving me. Even if I don't deserve him, I can't stop wanting. I'm not sure which is worse, the pain of withdrawal, or knowing I had everything I wanted and threw it away. Threw him away.
Curt…
I hear his anguished cries splitting open my heart and know exactly which is worse.
Fuck.
This isn't some soap opera where I can go back and beg his forgiveness and he looks into my eyes and I fall into him and the world lives happily ever after. I wish it were. Actually, no. I don't. Because then it would be perfect and real love isn't perfect. Images are perfect.
Image is being untouchable and unreachable. Image is a two dimensional picture that is open for any and all to judge, celebrate, condemn.
Image forbids cracks and flaws, vulnerability, asking and needing.
A man's life is his image. I never wondered why Curt frowned when I said that. But then I wouldn't have asked him. I was Maxwell Demon and that Image didn't need to ask anyone anything. Didn't *need* at all.
Killing him was one of the most euphoric moments of my life.
I have dozens of flaws. I *am* vulnerable. I have a thousand questions I should have asked. And I *need* Curt Wild. His touch, his dreams, his mouth, his fears, his voice, his flaws, his love.
I hope he has a minute to talk to a kid from Birmingham named Brian.
*****
Love lies bleeding in my hands.
I walked away, angry, silently begging him to stop me, to hit me, hurt me, love me, want me. But I wanted too much. Always want too much. My Demon. My Angel.
Brian…
I fucked up.
My lover, my soul, tearing down the walls that keep everyone else out, taking away the pain of simply breathing, seeing the needy kid whose eyes burn with hunger, craving, for the slightest bit of kindness, and giving it to me a thousand times over.
I just wanted him. Not that illusion he created, just him. Was it really too much to ask for?
Shit.
What I wouldn't give for a fucking hit. Anything to take away the screaming rage and self-hatred, a dull knife sawing through flesh and bone, dragging slowly back and forth, nothing but agony and aching emptiness, until I can see my heart beating, bleeding, stopping.
*Never* ask for anything. *Never* need anything. *Never* want anything. 'Cause God knows I'm certainly not worthy of it.
*Brian* is different. In some fucked up way, I doubt I would've been able to love him or have the strength to leave him if I'd never met him.
Images fade, but memories... the way he nibbles on his lower lip when he's nervous, or chews his fingernail when he's scared, or cocks his eyebrow when he wants to hide behind that mask. I love those bits 'n pieces of him. And he hated me for seeing them.
Shattering glass, breaking mirror, killing image…dying slowly.
I *need* him. I'd give him everything, anything if he asked. But why would he? Who wants a piece of trash kid from the wrong side of nowhere?