#(PYHRIIC) For your eyes only I’ll show you my heart

[errased]

‘ i want you to stop insisting that i’m not a lost cause. ’

PARAMORE STARTERS -- || ACCEPTING

                                      Tired Tired Tired TIRED TIRED TIRED ---

                                                           Troublesome.

        How long has it been?       Since castle walls crumbled ‘round the old graveyard and he wound his hands in brittle fists around the barbed wire in your chest -         How long since his corpse found a coffin in your ribs? How long since you devoted the last of your silk lining to trying to make the man of bones and war stories want to live again? 

You were splintering at the edges but you were born tattered. Your edges never quite lined up, their misshapen nooks and crannies only becoming fitting after you crested twenty and stopped remembering why you woke up in the mornings. 

You have always been one bottle short of the last chapter and a hesitation from a plummet. Some days you entertained the thought of letting yourself become another unknown name in the headlines because living is as much of a tedious challenge as keeping others alive. But you’ve always told yourself       ‘tomorrow.’         You’ve gotten by on tommorrows for fifteen years, as silent as a prayer. Maybe if you fixed other people’s lives it would give yours some kind of meaning.         That’s what you thought. . .

            But all of that was fine until you found yourself looking into the twisted mirror image of self hatred in soft strands of blonde and hallowed cheeks. He was martyrdom personified, Atlas past his prime pretending heroism wasn’t the bitter aftertaste off the bad high addiction of making meaning out of his life. He was brittle bones and dwindling cartilage and somewhere behind scar tissue and sunflower petals he was counting his tomorrow’s too.

It was different with him.        For you it was fair, just, a penance of your life you carried like nails in your palms just waiting for your cross. He was different, this was undeserved. He’d given every last scrap to everyone else, he was too good to be this TIRED.

How long has it been? Since the side of your fist found the wood grain in the table with enough force to knock the mugs from their places, since your voice raised through your throat in an uncharacteristic shout --

         “ That’s enough Toshinori !!

                                Enough of this-   this--  BULLSHIT!    You’re NOT a lost cause, and I won’t sit here and let you spout this like you think I should hate you as much as you hate yourself-

I will never give up on you.    No matter how much you detest that image in the mirror and no matter how many times you insist you’re obsolete, even if I have to spend every moment of my life proving it to you, I LOVE you and I will be here for you. You will NEVER BE A LOST CAUSE, and I won’t let you talk like that. ”

           For you to be threads and strands is fine, such is the way of life, in the grand scheme of things, you were nothing. Sands in an hourglass, borrowed hands on a clock. Your life was a waiting game for when you would finally choose rest over the effort of lungs and legs and sunrises.

But him? No. Not him. He was something, more then something. The world would dull without him in it. And should you have to, you’ll dedicate every last of your days to making him see it.