Misfits

He never cried in front of me before. Nor did his eyes bulge in anticipation, with held-back emotion and all. Today it came out raw and clean, it dripped on my chest and left a translucent patch of moisture on my shirt. The boy made it understood though: "It's not bad."

No, surely not; but the best feeling ever. You could smell pinswirls and your heartbeats would recede, then leap massive leaps like your muscles were springs. I let my fingers linger on my leaf pendant and panted a bit, surprised that my sobs and the heart-shaped music had overwhelmed this body - I opened him. Can I say that? Now that I think on it, yes, that's exactly what I was doing. I was opening his body up. I took the tears into a fist, we strung ourselves on a while to blur out the heat, and eventually he couldn't take it, no - no.

A crystalline bird perched somewhere in the room. Smiles formed out of crackle-paint, and I could feel how skin feels when you cradle a dead person. This isn't like him. It isn't like the world to beat out perfect circles into weary squiggles and to unlatch a swollen, angered beast onto the public. Nobody has that kind of mystic ability or authority. Nobody. But me.