i don’t want the ghost of john teller ruining everything we’ve built.
OPERATION GET SOME | DAY 6: FAVOURITE MOMENT WITH YOUR BROMANCE OF CHOICEMy sweetheart since junior high left me and married my best friend since junior high. We’re all still friends. They’re one of those happy couples that likes to take pictures of themselves and hang ‘em up all over their goddamn house. Sometimes I go over there just to look at my ex-fiancee doing all the things I used to do with her with my best friend. Surfing and jet skiing. It’s nice having friends.
December 24th and we’re through again.
This time for good I know because I didn’t
throw you out — and anyway we waved.
No shoes. No angry doors.
We folded clothes and went
our separate ways.
You left behind that flannel shirt
of yours I liked but remembered to take
your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?
Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again
and old ghosts come back home.
I’m sitting by the Christmas tree
wondering where did we go wrong.
Okay, we didn’t work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren’t good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.
There should be stars for great wars
like ours. There ought to be awards
and plenty of champagne for the survivors.
After all the years of degradations,
the several holidays of failure,
there should be something
to commemorate the pain.
Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster.
Till then, Richard, I wish you well.
I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water,
and women kinder than I treated you.
I forget the reason, but I loved you once,
Maybe in this season, drunk
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,
ripe for anarchy, loves still.
I have forgotten the sound of
your voice and I have considered
changing your name to missed
phone calls or you’re never there
when I need you. I am having
a hard time remembering the
way you make my stomach
hurt from laughing and I wonder
if I told a joke you didn’t like
and that’s why you stay away.
I don’t know what I’ve done to
deserve your silence. I don’t
know why you’ve run out of
time for me but I am missing you.
I am missing you, and I don’t feel
like I will ever stop.
If you’re strong enough to take that blade and draw it across your skin.
If you’re strong enough to take those pills and swallow them when no one’s home.
If you’re strong enough to tie that rope and hang it from the ceiling fan.
If you’re strong enough to jump off that bridge, my friend.
You are strong enough, to live.
You’re six months old. Your brother carries you out of a fire and later you’ll think that he never really put you down again.
You’re twelve years old. Your brother is haloed in gold and every time you look at him your heart skips a beat.
You’re fifteen years old. You realize that when your father says, “Jump,” your brother says, “How high?” It feels like your Christ has been crucified. Now you run on faith and fumes.
You’re eighteen years old. You want with a fever; you want to be something shiny and new, you want to be something independent and away from Him and him.
You’re twenty-two years old. Your brother looks at you like he thinks your eighteen and he wants you to be twelve. He doesn’t see all the growing you’ve done.
You’re twenty-three years old. You’re a monster.
You’re twenty-four years old. For the first time it’s your job to save your brother and you’re terrified and excited. He doesn’t think you can do it.
You’re twenty-five years old. You couldn’t do it.
You’re twenty-six years old. You’re everything you never wanted to be for all of the right reasons. You still want with a fever, but now you want blood. You think they’re going to have to burn your bones twice when you die just to give you peace.
You’re twenty-seven years old. Your brother catches you with blood on your lips and he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You’re not twelve. You’re not eighteen. You’re Christ and you’ve been crucified. He doesn’t have any faith so he’s just running on fumes.
You’re twenty-eight years old. You’re sorry all the way to martyrdom.
You’re twenty-nine years old. Your head hurts like you’ve got more than one person up there.
You’re thirty years old. You can’t remember what it felt like to be eighteen through the haze of pain and insanity.
You’re thirty-one years old. You’re alone. You’re done. There’s peace.
#Zoe soldier feels!! #I have so many feelings about what are her thoughts in the war and in their current situation #because I think she doesn’t wear her defeat as a badge of honor the way Mal does #she just accepted it because she was in the right side but the wrong side won #and so now everything is messed up and it doesn’t matter anymore #but she still has to keep Mal in check because she knows that if she doesn’t he will get himself killed #because Mal is constantly fighting the war even after is done #while Zoe accepts that they lost and there is nothing to do about it but keep living #and protect those around you however you can