“fuck your God, your Lord, your Christ. he did this: took all you had and left you this way.” in the spirit of rapture and progressive rock, one lonesome teenaged boy burned this song onto a disc and upon it scribed a name in pink-red sharpie. the boy’s room was messy and saturated with a stale adolescent odor, the same one his teachers and classmates noticed on the rare occasions when he showed up at school. his absence was as palpable as his presence: the boy was a bear in camouflage, tall and broad, covered in scars from old facial piercings — one jagged through his eyebrow where a ring had been ripped clean out (the hairs still struggled to touch over the rift.) he also had scars carved in with a razorblade — a pentagram on the forearm, then a change of heart and a “John 3:16” carved above it. he was brawny and dark, with eyes a sort of jaded grey that too freely gave away his sentiments. he was “that kid.” you know that kid. everyone does.

a scene:

it’s one am and the cd is playing. the boy leaves his window open a crack and the blinds up just a hair. he is “cleaning,” moving dirty clothes from one pile to another, waiting for glowing eyes to peer in from outside, for clammy shaking fingers to slip through the crack of his window and hook themselves to the frame for leverage. he never has to wait long.

the creature, not an adept climber, struggles through the window and fails to catch itself on the inside of the room. it tumbles awkwardly to the ground and curls up on the threadbare mattress, still shivering from the frigid night. the mattress is full of tiny prickled holes where the boy has lit it on fire to watch it burn. there is no sheet and the bedding is musty, heavy from being unwashed. the creature doesn’t seem to mind.

this is the routine: bare feet on wet grass, bloodied knees smeared with mud, the sordid night freezing the creature’s soft lungs from inside out, guts full of purple crystals. scale a small wall and tumble to relative safety: a few stolen hours after midnight clinging to each other on this filthy mattress, the burned cd playing “fuck your god”, everything stained an electric blue from the broken television propped on the dresser. the night is safer for their union as the world outside does not approve. the boy is too big, too scarred, too dangerous. the creature is small and dark and delicate, requires proper care that the boy cannot provide. this is what the world thinks: but love does not listen to the logic of the world.

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