The Tale of a Wild Haired Boy-Hamnah Marfood

Posted: November 22, 2016 in Blog Posts, Short Stories
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

There’s a tale, a tale buried under the constellation of maps draping on my flesh, it’s hidden in my pale ( fractured ) bones about a boy who fell in love with the sun. It’s a tale ( a myth to be precise ) about a boy with eyes so dark they could consume your heart and spit it on heated pavements, it’s about a boy with wild curls that he wears flowers in.
The boy was twelve when his mother used to braid (or weave I don’t remember) stories of the immortal bleeding sun and weeping stories of burning gods and goddesses and how their hearts had been punched so many times they couldn’t be counted on fingers, why burning the boy had asked pieces of puzzles peeking into his dark eyes, the mother never answered ( perhaps the gods had devoured her once apricot heart with rushing flames ).
The boy was thirteen he created castles made of dollar bills and crowns made of stolen jewels why do you steal my boy his mother asked him on a dreary evening father has carved it into my flesh oh dear mother. The boy was thirteen and instead of kicking balls under the sun kissed sky he was  skipping in people’s backyards under the teary moon. The boy was thirteen when he wished his fate wasn’t carved into his flesh.
The boy was fourteen when his sister had thorns in her hair, she’d tell him about the immortal ambrosia coated lips ( they tasted like the sugar melted on yellow fire ) and rich ( golden bright golden ) ichor dripping from the skin of their tongues, how did you know their lips tasted sweet the boy had asked ( curiosity always sat on the tips of his eyelashes and the creases of his lips ) no they had always tasted like honeyed sorrow and sugar-coated kisses.
The boy was fifteen and his wild curls started to go limp and press against his cheeks, the boy was fifteen when his mother used to choke up dust and blood into thin tissues and his cheeks would stay damp throughout the night, he’d stay beside his mother’s bed and read stories about never ending lives of empty-chested immortals, I wish you were immortal mother his voice lacked rest and his eyes drooped with sleep, oh no my dear I would tear apart the skin from my flesh and the flesh from my  bones before I empty my soul of humanity and memories.
The boy was seventeen and there was a six feet deep hole in the damp brown earth, a crater in which his mother rested eyes closed ( there was blood and grime under her eyelids, his heart had buzzed with a hope of his mother’s eyelids being coated with sunshine tears and tingling water droplets ). The boy was seventeen when he wished he could drag out his mother from under her coffin and have her hands run through his dark curls. The boy was seventeen when his tears flooded the soil
The boy was eighteen when he fell in love with the immortal sun with the amber eyes that ignited with fire and crackled with rising embers, with flushed cheeks and hair spun with gold, the boy was eighteen when he dreamt  of kissing those bronze cheeks and rose lips, the boy was eighteen when he dreamt of swallowing the sun and feeling it burn and chew his stomach into ashes.
The boy was nineteen when he collected broken and forgotten feathers from dirty floor, he was eighteen when he cleansed the feathers with honey and water dripping from his fingers onto his brown palms, the boy was nineteen when he melted was from candles onto his calloused palms and he would paste the feathers with was together until his hands would ache and fingers would bleed. ( He wants to escape the mortal world ). The boy was nineteen when his soften into the soil he walks on. It’s filthy his father mocks.
Icarus ( the wild-haired boy ) is twenty one and he’s flying near to the sun. Icarus’s twenty-one and he’s kissing the sun ( the sun is repeating his name like it’s a holy prayer on the sun’s lips and Icarus is a God ) and, oh, the sun’s lips are ripe flesh and they taste like poetry. Icarus’s lips are red and raw and they are cracking open with ichor, is he a god the sun thinks.
Their names are repeating prayers on each other’s lips.

Hamnah Manfood for Beyond Sanity Publishing

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