schizophrenic-clown

He spends forty-five minutes getting ready each morning. He talks to himself like someone is always in his presence, taking notes on everything coming out of his mouth, no matter the level of importance or intellect. The words slipping out reflect the wreckage of his mind—a load of chaos with a few peace marches here and there. It's a mismatched puzzle no one wants to put together, much less open the box. The couch becomes his resting place for the passing days. He lies untouched, muscles tense, brow furrowed, lips moving at a speed of a lightning bolt striking the earth a few yards away. The discussion today is about his father. "He w

There's something about the way four fingers drumming against a flat surface causes him to grab his coat and run out onto the apartment's balcony. The noise settles in his mind like the sour bite of a banana's bruise, and the wool of his Belstaff catches on the dry skin of his elbows as he hastily pulls it over his shoulders. Drum, drum… drum, drum, drum. A million race horses scratch at his temples. "No, no," he frantically yells at the top of his lungs—the volume control of his voice box set to "criminally insane". Drum, drum. "Don't you dare!" A sudden chill sweeps him off his feet, tossing the curly mop of noir atop his h

dear you, nothing compares to the look on your face when you accidently poke yourself in the eye by trying to get the sleep out not even the finest cotton could compete with the softness of your hair as i run my fingers through it the laugh that escapes from your chapped lips is one that could nurse me back to health a birthing mother's yowl isn't close to the noise you make when you scream the cushions of your bed can never replace the strands of your scalp when i thread my fingers between the demeanor on your face as you first wake up is one i'll miss forever because whenever i face the day you're not there anymore love, me

"It's happening again," she murmurs as her fingers grasp another sheet of paper. The parchment scratches against her skin, cutting the tips a thousand times like little fish bites. Her heart beats in her chest at a rapid pace—twenty horses thundering down a racetrack—at just the sight of the faint pink envelope with her name and address stretched across the front in small cursive handwriting. This letter can prove to be anything, but the font on the surface does strike a nerve in the back of her head. The etchings are so familiar, and other than the sudden piercing headache, her body seems to shut down. Her knees knock together,

the boy on the  s                        w                        i                        n                        g           was    s   t   i   l   l, as if the wind s  t  o  p  p  e  d      l       w       n b         o       i      g and      st        ng ru          li the            leaves                   on                   the              t  r  e  e  s and the       h a i r                      on                      his                     head.