cyanidefries
Member
- Apr 17, 2025
- 6
(This is meant to be an expression of how life feels to me. It's bland and hollow, and more than anything, cold. I will likely add more, but this is all I have for now. Apologies if I've done anything wrong or formatted things weird, this is my first time posting here.)
Warmth. It's all anyone can seem to remember of their life. Pancakes and hot syrup paired with grandma's warm hug in the morning. The feeling of tennis shoes against the grass, sprinting as fast as they can on a hot summer day. The sound of the pattering footsteps acted as lyrics to a symphony of teenage friends' out-of-breath laughter. Foamy beers line the round booth of a bar, that same laughter now sounding aged yet reminiscent of youth. Jokes are cracked, and even after a long day of work, the people sitting at this table know they always have a place to call home. It all melts into a maple mess. Why has mine been so cold?
I used to burn myself to replicate this warmth. The glowing embers of a cigarette sunk into the hearth that was my forearm. I learned to love the scent of burning flesh and lighter fluid, the smoky clouds adding to the nostalgic atmosphere I modeled. Searing tissue shot endorphins to my brain, stimulating more than being tucked into bed ever could. The circular scars left behind acted as a photo album of memories—and it didn't take long before I began to let myself melt into the pain, soaking up all the radiating orange and red as if the dull, dingy blue around me didn't exist. I learned very quickly this didn't work. No amount of tobacco ashes could fill the empty hole inside of my chest. Yet I clung to the torch I had crafted, allowing it to illuminate the dark hallways I crept through. I convinced myself that this warmth, albeit forged, was all I needed to survive in this chilly world.
I remember that stick of light getting heavier day by day, but I refused to let go. The weight of the torch crushed my fingers and broke my bones, but I couldn't let go of the only thing I had left. The only thing I ever had. I loved those flames the way a heroin addict loved tar; I really, really, did not want to. But I could not stop. Ashtrays and butane, I flooded my senses with foggy fumes, the swirling black smoke drawing smiling faces and graduation presents around me, the smell of my scorching skin filled in blanks where freshly baked cookies should've been. No longer could I remember what it was that I was seeking to recreate on a model scale, I could only become engulfed in what it had warped into. Third-degree burns wrapped my body like a fuzzy blanket on an autumn day, swaddling me in what I believed to be peace.
Warmth. It's all anyone can seem to remember of their life. Pancakes and hot syrup paired with grandma's warm hug in the morning. The feeling of tennis shoes against the grass, sprinting as fast as they can on a hot summer day. The sound of the pattering footsteps acted as lyrics to a symphony of teenage friends' out-of-breath laughter. Foamy beers line the round booth of a bar, that same laughter now sounding aged yet reminiscent of youth. Jokes are cracked, and even after a long day of work, the people sitting at this table know they always have a place to call home. It all melts into a maple mess. Why has mine been so cold?
I used to burn myself to replicate this warmth. The glowing embers of a cigarette sunk into the hearth that was my forearm. I learned to love the scent of burning flesh and lighter fluid, the smoky clouds adding to the nostalgic atmosphere I modeled. Searing tissue shot endorphins to my brain, stimulating more than being tucked into bed ever could. The circular scars left behind acted as a photo album of memories—and it didn't take long before I began to let myself melt into the pain, soaking up all the radiating orange and red as if the dull, dingy blue around me didn't exist. I learned very quickly this didn't work. No amount of tobacco ashes could fill the empty hole inside of my chest. Yet I clung to the torch I had crafted, allowing it to illuminate the dark hallways I crept through. I convinced myself that this warmth, albeit forged, was all I needed to survive in this chilly world.
I remember that stick of light getting heavier day by day, but I refused to let go. The weight of the torch crushed my fingers and broke my bones, but I couldn't let go of the only thing I had left. The only thing I ever had. I loved those flames the way a heroin addict loved tar; I really, really, did not want to. But I could not stop. Ashtrays and butane, I flooded my senses with foggy fumes, the swirling black smoke drawing smiling faces and graduation presents around me, the smell of my scorching skin filled in blanks where freshly baked cookies should've been. No longer could I remember what it was that I was seeking to recreate on a model scale, I could only become engulfed in what it had warped into. Third-degree burns wrapped my body like a fuzzy blanket on an autumn day, swaddling me in what I believed to be peace.
