i held out a cup
to my window one night
and I watched as the moon
poured out rivers of light
He clutches the small mug, the warmth leeching into his thin, pale hands. In the silvery glow of the moonlight, the slimness of his palms looks almost elegant.
He knows it isn't so.
He can feel the quiet, white lines running down the cold, rough skin. He remembers how the knife felt, all cold (impossible, to him, who defines cold) and sharp, just teasing until – that small noise – hush… of the blade sliding inside… the blood, red and dark… almost looking like wine…. He remembers.
All he wants is to feel good; he wants that soft, golden feeling of gentleness and warmth. Warmth. He has never experienced this feeling, even when he woke up… the fear, the icy cold that submerged him – icantbreathe saveme –
He shakes his head. No, don't think about it, if you don't think about it, you won't feel it ever again…
He has tried to feel this foreign feeling, this warmth. Is it real? It must be so; all those other people can feel it. Those people who walk through him every day, who drive their bony elbows and fleshy thighs inside his slight body, they feel it. So why can't he? What is so wrong with him?
He knows he is better than some of them. He has never gotten drunk; he has never eaten whatever powder there is inside those pretty little packets. He has never insulted anyone…
Maybe he should try. Maybe, because of all these strange, incomprehensible things these people do, they can feel this warmth.
He remembers when he waited just for the right time, when the pretty sand was floating in the air, around those children's heads. It looked warm. He decided to touch some surrounding a little girl's head, but she looked so innocent, he left her alone. It didn't work.
So, now, he brings the burning liquid to his white, almost blue, lips. It smells good. He opens his mouth to take the liquid inside him, and chokes.
It is too hot, he is burning, Moon helpme ineedyou…
But the Moon doesn't help him. No one ever does.
He is alone.