airgear // supersonic


the thing about this is that when i wake up, i see you.

not a metaphorical you. not a physical one either. just somewhere in between (the twilight zone, you'd tell me with that condescending smirk, or that hole alice fell into, isn't it, dear magdala) and i'm sure i'm halfway crazy. maybe all the way.

i wake up. i see you. crazy, right.

you'll just sit there in my easy chair, your hands nicely folded like how you'd had them when you're waiting for dinner and you watch me. you watch me watch you. and this is obviously a problem because well. it's impossible. i know it's impossible. i buried you. i shoveled dirt onto your makeshift casket until my fingers bled and my nails chipped to hell; they make it look so simple on tv shows. never believe what you see on tv.

so really. what the fuck are you doing in my easy chair?

"hello," you say. it's your voice, same monotone i hate but you don't sound quiet right. like you're speaking around a mouthful of gravel. i can't remember if i'd closed your mouth. i mustn't have. "hello, my little magdala."

there, the condescension again. i told you i hate being called whoever's 'little magdala'. i told you so many times and you never listened. "you're dead."

"yes, i am."

"i'm dreaming." i must be. the other alternative is equally confusing and terrifying. "you're a figment of my subconscious."

"always an optimist, my little magdala." you're laughing. or wheezing more like it, short of breath. one of your hands raises to your neck and i can see that necklace of a bruise just under your collar. purpling and hideous. "you know why i'm here."

well now. "i sodding don't."

your fingers are filthy, all torn up like you'd scratched your way out of earth, and i don't like them being pointed at me. accusatory, that's what they are. "i'm here for you."

"bloody hell. get lost."

"my little magdala, i'm here for you."

"look." even dead you're not listening. bastard. "call me 'little magdala' again and i'll throttle you a second time. a-and if you're a zombie or whatever the hell you are, i've got a gun and i'm a pretty decent shoot."

i don't have a gun and i have fucking terrible aim but you don't know that. you'd always been more interested in what i can do with my mouth than my hands.

"you must come with me." you look more bewildered than menacing, if you ask me. i guess you're not used to 'no's. "you're my wife. you're mine-"

"till death do us part."


"our vows." i remember that day in the altar. i was wearing the traditional white and your bowtie was a little crooked. i remember that smudge of lipstick on the corner of your mouth. a darker red than any lipsticks i had owned but that was ages ago. you said your vow so perfectly though. "till death do us part. you're dead, bernard."


"you should've listened properly."
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airgear // supersonic


the city consumes. it lights up in brilliant hues, multi-coloured neons advertising everything a heart could ever want. millions billboards flashing at the corners of your eyes, voices sweet as honey and you tell yourself "a quick visit won't hurt". you step inside, worn sneakers skimming streets lined with promises but it's never a quick visit. you never run out of things you want.

(what do you need, boy).

so the city consumes. you trade a little bit of yourself for pretty little things your fingers will soon break. you trade and you break until there is nothing left, and you only notice when you wake up one morning, look into the mirror and you can't recognise the face looking back at you. just a stranger with broken pretty little things under the skin, instead of a heart.

"a quick visit won't hurt," you tell that stranger. he smiles, bright and empty. "our city."
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airgear // supersonic


there were times when she woke up screaming, clawing at her throat and words spilling from scarlet lips strangled past recognition. on her bedside he remained, fascination created loyalty and obsession he called love. her mind a labyrinth of nightmares, lovingly crafted by fears borne of secrets and hopes and she pirouetted past salvation with a smile on her face, tapdanced to the beats of the devil with feet encased in glass slippers until the floor gave away under the weight of their sins. he tucked a rose in her hair oh so lovingly, blood red to match the colour of her soul and his fingertips burned scars and mine spoken in forked tongues.

we're the brokenhearted dolls of misfortune. her lips wrapped around the syllables, honey and poison even as she danced the midnights away. we're meant to falter and fall and why are you still smiling, my dear? don't we have tears to cry?

he dipped fingers into the juncture of her neck, pulled red ribbons around translucent skin and his smile cut into his eyes. my dear. why waste our tears. my dear. let's wilt and die right here.
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airgear // supersonic


"tell me a story!" the girl said
the clock chimes, twelve echoes and
the moon shines as bright as blood
"tell me a story!" the girl said
shadows creeping, ebbing, waiting
for when the clock strikes past midnight for
when the clouds are wisps of ink, dark
blind against deceiving light
"tell me a story!" the girl said
but nothing ends happily
not when cold fingers seize reality
and golden is the colour of sin, Midas screams
"tell me a story!" the girl said
and hands over mouth and air and life
mingles, coils, disappears - phantoms unchained
the white of truths be consumed
be damned, ad infinitum
"tell me a story!" the girl said
the monsters underneath your bed
the skeletons in your closet
the eyes behind your head
"tell me a story!" the girl said
it echoes

and she speaks no more after that.
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airgear // supersonic


she says it's okay, even if we live forever and our bones turn to dust under wrinkled skin. the stutter of heartbeats, the caress of fingertips. it's a time to remember and regret, paint the city red and grow white flowers along the cemetery for midnight carnivals.

there's a smile on her face when she holds out her hand, an orchid in the twine of her fingers. she says, "all your deliberate lies, bury them with me. i'll keep them safe, baby oh baby."
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airgear // supersonic


on a midsummer night, he dreamt of nightingale’s songs and crumbling kingdoms and ruby red lips.

there were traces of a hymn in his head when he woke up, chants of doubts and curiosity in the midst of comforting daylight and the sun couldn’t quite chase away fleeting caresses of cold, cold lips upon his. he ran his hand through tangles of dark hair, fisted silk sheets in frustration when he could recall nothing more. the songs were fading and the kingdoms had dissipated along with the lull of sleepiness, but those lips. those lips remained, close and teasing and familiar.

roses are red, violets are blue,
even in death, i’ll still love you.

he flung the sheets aside, stared at the canopy overhead instead. its retort of silence was not enough to comfort, only served to amplify phantom songs, lilting notes spoken in a tongue he couldn’t understand and dreams had never bothered him so much before. but then again, he had never dreamt in colours. always monochrome and everything that he could remember now was red. it was at the tip of his tongue, at the back of his mind. he trailed a finger over the curve of his lower lip, rubbed it rough with the pad of his thumb until annoyance made him stop. there must be something... something he had missed.

three sharp knocks snapped him from his musing, staccato courtesy to signal his morning company and the door inched open after a short pause. buzzes of conversation filtered in for a few seconds, voices strong and real, before the door closed with a click. taps of heels against polished marbles echoed inside the room and he was gracious enough to grin at the bespectacled man towering over him by the bedside, only to receive a small stretch of thin lips for his effort. a gloved hand extended an offer of assistance and he clasped it, dragged himself into a sitting position with a disgruntled sigh. he didn’t miss the arch of an eyebrow the sigh invited but questions were not a part of their morning routine.

he liked routines. routines were safe, mapped out in whites and blacks and he didn’t have to worry about the instability of reds.
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airgear // supersonic


your love spells mercurial
does it change too often too quickly?
i'll be your back alley chemist if you let me
write you prescriptions of pretty words and barb wires
if i can kiss you goodbye goodbye goodbye
and lay you in velvet-kissed glass coffin for eternity.
{ we'll r e i n v e n t pda, baby oh baby }

so maybe we're a little bit lost
a little bit in love
a little bit dead.
and maybe when the gravedigger comes and take you away
i promise i'll cry into your white white dress
oh you foolish, foolish little girl
why did you smile too little break too much

because maybe we're
just a little bit lost
just a little bit in love.
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airgear // supersonic


she smudges kohl over unshed tears
lips spilling skeleton keys and come find me's
runs away when fingertips graze the spill of her laughter.
i can count your tears, let me let me

he presses kisses down her spine
trailing promises over heartbreaks and
derision tattooed into the curve of her lips.
i'll paint you black and blue and red oh so red

one day i'll shatter, she says and it's whitehot truth
you'll fix me. fix me until i can't see the cracks.
fix me until you can love me.
i'm yours, always have been can't you see

i'll pick up the pieces, he screams and love blinds.
he counts seconds into eternity and a day
watches cracks in her smiles, dim light of her eyes
let me wait forever, bones and dust and darkness descents

and maybe this is love
and maybe this is madness
me and you
you and me

catch me catch me catch me
catch me