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writetomyheart2015-09-14 05:33 am
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-09-14 05:33 am
[team sonic] dry my eyes
First words from here.
Title from Troye Sivan's Happy Little Pill.
A wooden box. It's sitting on the wood floor, in a pool of light from the window open behind him, casting a shadow over the smooth grain. There's white in his peripheral vision, the trailling edges of the white curtains floating in the breeze that dances across his back, warm finger tiptoes and whispers that he can't quite make out. Are there angels hovering beyond this plane of reality? Who knows.
Seokjin knows exactly what's in the box. Six white petals, six words whispered into the dark recesses, held on trembling fingers as time trickles out. He knows exaclty what's in the box because he put it there.
There's a smell, in the room—it hangs heavy, touching the ground. A combination of smoke and the sour staleness of crushed pills. He can almost taste them in his mouth, even though they're not his, like a memory he can't dislodge, a dream one can't be woken from. His fingernails, resting gently on his thighs, are still sharp. Curling up towards his chest, he can feel the pulse of his blood in every digit.
Your heart sounds like a flatline.
That's what he'd thought, standing in the cold room, the pale florescent lights flickering on white tile; green walls. Not the green of life, but rather mold, sad, forgotten things hiding under the bed.
He won't open the box. The wind stills, curtains hanging limp as the angels leave.
Title from Troye Sivan's Happy Little Pill.
A wooden box. It's sitting on the wood floor, in a pool of light from the window open behind him, casting a shadow over the smooth grain. There's white in his peripheral vision, the trailling edges of the white curtains floating in the breeze that dances across his back, warm finger tiptoes and whispers that he can't quite make out. Are there angels hovering beyond this plane of reality? Who knows.
Seokjin knows exactly what's in the box. Six white petals, six words whispered into the dark recesses, held on trembling fingers as time trickles out. He knows exaclty what's in the box because he put it there.
There's a smell, in the room—it hangs heavy, touching the ground. A combination of smoke and the sour staleness of crushed pills. He can almost taste them in his mouth, even though they're not his, like a memory he can't dislodge, a dream one can't be woken from. His fingernails, resting gently on his thighs, are still sharp. Curling up towards his chest, he can feel the pulse of his blood in every digit.
Your heart sounds like a flatline.
That's what he'd thought, standing in the cold room, the pale florescent lights flickering on white tile; green walls. Not the green of life, but rather mold, sad, forgotten things hiding under the bed.
He won't open the box. The wind stills, curtains hanging limp as the angels leave.
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Feeling very hollow after reading this. I listen to song a lot and it makes me feel really hollow.
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