R.I.P. burn face.
acid burned face,
clowny tear smile.
—
It's always too much but never enough. He can't reach it. He can't reach peace. A bird witout wings, a shark without teeth, a tiger without claws. His body is carrying something. A gloomy disease that gnaws his bones like a bastard dog with dusty paws. A cursed child in his belly, demonic and poisoned, who bites his guts and corrupts his lungs. The product of an unknow degeneration—black, black like a raven's blood on the snow—white, oh yes, blinding white. And everytime he tries to kill it, it's like his own hands are on his neck.
Years fallen in the hourglass, sand grains like rose petals or knives—both soft and sharp. The endless and repetitive cycle of love—love with blood like wine and bruises like stars. His hands on his skin are a blasphemy and a prayer, his lips on his neck are candles and he turns them off with his tongue. The fire catches, then it burns.
How he wished he did not know that.
"We could have had everything, you know. We deserved so much better than we have had," he says.
"If only you ever stopped hating me," Near finishes. His fingers look like fangs when they slide on his naked thigh, and his eyes are in another galaxy—that one galaxy he never managed to reach.
It has to be fine there. With him.
For the last time, he tries.
And there he is. A burning fire, because fire is all that he has and all that he is.
Dead, dying, death. Ashes. And a fragrance of burnt sugar in the air, on the grey and cold marble of a tombstone. The lines of a cross that never ends. And the endgraving says sinner, sinner, oh pretty sinner.
Mud heals wounds.
And tears too.
"Sleep well, Mello," he says in the graveyard filled with widows, and he smashes the roses under his shoes.
a/n. Really, I don't even know where this came from. I woke up in the middle of the night, and wrote this. Feel free to interpret it the way you want. And, by the way, I don't own Death Note and its characters, and blablabla. Thanks for reading and everything.