literature

Whiskey boy, ruby boy.

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Daily Deviation

Daily Deviation

March 20, 2011
Whiskey boy, ruby boy. by *sirenseranade11 creates two inevitably intertwining stories with lyrical phrasing and well-chosen details.
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Literature Text

1. It has been twenty seven days since I last let the
    hawk-eyed man into my head, ninety four hours
    since I last drank myself to sleep, and thirty two
    minutes since I last kept my mother from the truth.
    Tonight, she still thinks I have hope, but it may be
    the last time she believes I'm still whole.

i. Last night, I dreamt of the boy next door, the gun
    in his drawer, the whiskey under his bed, the hate
    in his eyes when he drags me out of bed to tell me
    I've ruined another story, I've fanned another flame.
    This boy does not know my mother, but I suspect
    they would get along quite well.


2. The last time my father crossed the ocean, I explained
    to my mother that the cogs ground too hard, that the
    words cut too deep, that I was the kind of sick that
    machines couldn't fix, that x-rays couldn't see. And
    as his plane landed in Amsterdam, my mother laid
    across my bed and asked me where she had failed, but
    who was I to break her heart. She cried until the sunset,
    until my father called, when she walked back to her room,
    avoiding my eyes. We never spoke of it again.

ii. Some nights, I am addicted to this boy, this whiskey boy,
     this ruby boy, this chemical boy who tells me it's okay to
     die, it's okay to fail as long as he's waiting beneath my
     window with something to wash the razors down. Some
     nights, I hate him, I wish I never knew him, I wish I never
     opened the window and whispered his name through the
     dark. The next morning, his taste always haunts my lips
     and his ruby touch stains my hips, the ghost of his scent
     burns my throat until I want it, I need it. He never leaves,
     and I don't want him to go. Perhaps I'm in love, perhaps
     I'm insane. Perhaps I'm asleep just waiting to be woken up.


3. My mother does not sleep, and some nights when the boy
    comes to my window, I wait to hear her weighted breathing
    outside my door. She never breaks the silence. As I'm
    removing the screen and closing my eyes and hoping it's a
    dream, she's listening to the walls creak and letting me escape
    into the foggy orange sky. She turns off the light and pretends
    she doesn't know.

iii. My whiskey boy does not love me,
      he only loves watching me burn.
I need new friends.







:iconthewrittenrevolution:
Does the back and forth make sense or is it too disconnected?
© 2010 - 2024 sirenseranade11
Comments75
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Black-Hat-Hacker's avatar
I like this. At first glance the words are just a deranged ramble but with the whole picture in view, all the lines write a story. I'm sure it's different for others, the subtext - fill in the blank, open for interpretation and all that jazz but this story reminds me of the discomfort and discontent of being an outlier in polite society. You can't really train out the difference that people innately distrust but you can mask it under darkness for the sake of normalcy and mothers, mostly for mothers.

Or maybe I just like it, because the to and fro fits easy with the way my brain connects the dots and the concept rings true in my head.