sjsprWriting

The smoke moved like a dull wane, folding into low-cut lapels mingling through the subtleties of my teeth.

I stamped out my cigarette. The heel of my boot laughed as it became caked in a vignette of embers.

I lingered around the old fence. The paint was chipping off as my fingernails felt poignantly sharp. I crossed to the gate, let the rusted lock fall on abrupt contact, and opened to a hauntingly stolid house that sat and stared at me like a benign cancer.

The breeze swept in a rich powder of dandelions, each with its own parachute of gravity luring it to the garden floor. A thin string began to peer out of my chest, pulsating under an unnatural light as it pulled me forward.

At the front porch my limbs crisply ironed themselves into uniform. I knocked on the wooden door and immediately clenched my teeth under the stern weight of taciturn eternities.

I had selfishly forgotten that someone else lived inside this house; a stagnant boy that enjoyed the company of pale cinderblocks.

His skin was woven within negative spaces and peaking shadows; deep inside, and lost.

He was me.