#imnot gonna cut this in half to make it shorter. long paragraph on your feed immediately

[koukaaa-descent]

Sometimes i get the feeling that we’re both actors in a play, and you’re smiling at me, smiling like you’re about to tell me i fucked a line up, that i fucked it all up. I get the feeling that we’re just a moment away from calling it quits, from walking off of the stage and going to get coffee. There is smoke in the air. The curtains are burning. The audience can see everything, man. Everything. And i’ve fucked some line they couldn’t even hear, and they’re staring up at us and waiting for the scene to continue, listening to the long droning music that’s had me pinned here since the goddamn start. I’m the worst actor in the world. You’re just my friend. You’re telling me i got the line wrong and i’m telling you there were no lines in the first place. The audience is made up of shadows and plushies and dust. You’re grinning at me, and the curtain’s burning, the sun through your window, and i’m wondering if i really did get the line wrong, if i did fuck this up. I’m wondering. I’m not enough of an actor for this. I can’t pretend to be the best thing you’ll ever see. The sun through your dusty ass window. I see the particles in the light. On your face. I’m not a good actor. I tell you this, and i hope you don’t see the godawful tremor in my whole body when i speak, hear it in my voice. The audience is whispering, laughing, shadow wispy and long in the reflected light, dust swept away by the frail wind of our breaths, the plushies still and as quiet as ever. Nonjudgemental friends. Yours were always well loved. You tilt your head and i can see it as you pick me apart in moments, passerine in nature. A falcon turning its head this way and that in order to see each enormous piece of its handler. But i’m no handler, and you’re no falcon. I’m no actor, either. And you open your mouth, and i see the blood on your lips where they’d been bitten through, and i see the sun on your skin, and i see the phantom of dust coming through the light and sitting in the air like stars around you, around us, and i am ignoring the audience and forgetting that i’m an actor, that that’s always what i was, forgetting that i need to be more than this for you, this hollowed little cavernous thing hungry for even the scraps you leave behind. You say it, those words, the death knell sweet like honey, and everything leaves me. The audience is quiet. The stage is empty of all aside from us. The curtains have burnt into the dust that’s become stars in the sunlight. The stage lights grow dim. There. There it is. There it is.