Current mood:	angry
Current music:	Some radio thang.

A poem I wrote for fanfic100 so it's Chase/Wilson *gasp*


He reads his fingernails
Like they could have all the answers
All he reads are ten different bloody cuticles
Dead skin
White knuckles.
His nails don’t hold all the answers.
They never did.
And yet that hasn’t stopped him looking at them
And their years of hopeless split skin.

He couldn’t hold her together
He was too young, too scared
He tried (God he tried)
-Tried till the tears ran dry-
In the end he couldn’t even let her go properly.

He couldn’t be right for him.
He didn’t do what he was supposed to do.
He didn’t even know what that was.
He prayed and then he studied
And then he stopped trying to try.

He couldn’t do it for her.
He struck the flint and released the gas
And watched the flame
And his hand shook
And her skin was too white
And he couldn’t do it.
Not with any conviction.

He couldn’t be perfect.
Tried til his breath hissed hopelessly from his chest
And he became dimly aware he
Wasn’t sleeping.
So he tried out the traitor
The Judas.
Dressed in the green of jealousy
(and loss).
Even then he couldn’t do it with the gut-wrenching cruelty
He knew he was capable of.

Looking at him with fast-fading blue eyes
She asked for a kiss before she died.
It wasn’t even a good kiss.
It was begrudgingly given
Eagerly taken
And maybe his apathy bled from his lips
(His inability to gain control and keep it)
Her eyelids fluttered and she didn’t ask for another.
(He couldn’t do it for her either)

His finger is bleeding.
He sucks it briefly.
He realises he really isn’t good enough
-really isn’t whole enough-
To be the person people keep expecting him to be.

Now they expect nothing from him
And he can’t even give them that.

He chews his lower lip
And reflects that he is weak.
His breath catches in his lungs,
Remembers kisses that try to take it all
Thinks about dark hair between his fingers
Knows that he can’t give and take with any honesty
(He’s a thief that never takes the right things-
Figures.)
His fingers curl into a fist.
He gets to his feet;
Fetches a coffee.

(Tries not to remember the last few nights-
Breathless whispering in an even more breathless room-
Mouth against his stomach, lips forming words against the damp skin-
Maybe only in his mind, maybe in reality-
Lips brushing his quivering stomach as they mouth
“You’ll never be enough. You’ll never be enough”)

He wants to say “I can’t do this”
But knows it won’t work.
That’s living up to expectation
(His mouth against his chest)
And even then the expectation is too high
(The words pounding in his brain)
He lets them down, staring at his broken cuticles
(Hands around his hips, bruises like promises)
And the words bleached, burned, cut, written
Into his skin
(The inevitable curse; pouring down his body like sin)
The certain knowledge that he can never be enough.