Capricorn Kisses

In and out.

Every time my eyes close, she's there—living, breathing, unbroken. Even the scars on her face carry a story etched into her like fragile truths. Battle-worn and bruised, the night still haunts me, its shadow stretching across my mind. My eyes burn as I relive these tattooed memories, branded into me as if time itself refuses to heal them.

I wanted to fight.

But I was just a kid, weighing 130 at best, too light for that night's weight. Memories hang like picture frames in my mind, suspended without walls, without eyes to admire their colors. The sky stretches across them, textured and alive, with a sun that sits there as if it couldn't care less.

The waves of that moment pull me in, swallowing me whole and trapping my breath in a sea of tears that never stop leaking. Even now, I feel like I'm drowning, my soul treading water as that frame—still and unmoving—holds the pieces of me I'll never reclaim.

Some memories never fade.

Some nights never end. And some kisses—Capricorn kisses, born from moments of pain—cling to you forever. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days. Time keeps moving, but its weight doesn't lighten.

I've learned to stop questioning mistakes, though they linger like shadows in the corners of my mind. I make the bed of hurt each morning, only to lie in it again, waking to the same ache. The flood of it never ceases, even as the months bleed into years.

My smile is the blood of my tears, a mask I wear to hide the hurt.

I'm not ashamed to say I've found peace—not because I've found answers, but because the questions lead nowhere. Grief is a quiet thief, slipping into the cracks of your soul, stealing your breath in the dead of night. It doesn't ask permission. It doesn't knock. It moves in, rearranging everything inside you until you no longer recognize who you are.

As I stand before the man in the mirror, the one who so quickly hides from the world, I wonder—how much longer can I keep up this disguise? I find peace in exchange for grief—the price I pay for living with the thief.

They left her there.

Crumpled on the pavement, as if she didn't matter. But she did. She was everything to me—my big sister. I ran to her, tears clouding my vision, my hands trembling as I tried to wipe the blood from her face.

Her pain lingers in me, a taste my heart can't forget. Even now, I wear a mask of smiles, day after day, waiting—hoping—for someone to look beyond the lights, the sun, and the waves and truly see me and the questions written deep inside me.

What's the reason?

Evil comes to us in the heat of moments we can never take back. Two against one—it's easy to inflict pain when you feel no resistance when the weak seem powerless beneath your fists. But they didn't just beat her that night. They beat me, too, deep down inside. I felt every blow in my soul, each one carving a question I still can't answer.

How do you live a happy life knowing the lives you've broken and the innocence you've left shattered along the road? Is it really so easy to forget when you're the one causing the pain?

I wonder sometimes—does the blood of the weak still linger, dry and unseen, under the nails of the hangman? Or does it haunt them in the silence when they're alone, staring at their reflection?

What did they gain?

They tore through a young mind, leaving it to heal in fragments. And here I am, alone in a world that denies karma's existence—until the pain finally comes knocking on their doorstep.

They find God in their older age, standing at the pulpit, asking for forgiveness. On their knees, they weep while others cheer and sing praises, their voices rising like smoke in the bright light of redemption. But even as the light shines, the clay begins to crack.

The heat from our shadows—the truths we bury deep—has found us. In its hand, it carries tokens of hell, pain, and disruption, trading them in for the seeds of karma, now scattered across the fields of their past.

Where the truths we bury can no longer hide, they rise, demanding to be seen.

Knock, knock.

My memories are at the door.

The pain of that night still knocks—seconds into minutes, minutes into hours. Days bleed into months and months into years. We can never outrun who we are or the hands that have shaped us.

I think of the long walks to school, our laughter, and how my big sister made me feel loved when the world refused to see me. Even as the world turned on her, even as she lay in bed with stitches marking her face, love still lived in her heart.

The rocks thrown into her waters never skipped—they never offered others a chance to steal her joy or make a wish at her expense. No, love still lives inside her! It's unshaken, resilient, a flame that refuses to be extinguished.

Burning Eyes

My eyes burn as I write this—I miss her. We live in different states now, our lives pulling us in opposite directions, yet our bond grows stronger with time. Maybe that's why that night lingers with me like a shadow waiting for me to notice its silhouette in the darkness.

It feels as if it's trying to strip away the good inside me, to scorch the light I carry. Maybe the world itself is conspiring to erode my spirit, to close my eyes to the goodness in others.

But I won't let it.

Her Smile

Her smile gives me hope and strength, a reminder that fear will not live inside my heart. I acknowledge the pain of my past, the pain I've caused others, and the captivity of my own mind.

But my passion knows no walls, no confines. It refuses to be caged. So, I choose to step beyond these self-imposed barriers, walking freely into the vastness of possibility, where healing and purpose await.

Where Her Spirit Lives

I reach inside myself, letting my loved ones know that I love them. I call my sister just to hear her voice. Even as the phone rings, I smile, knowing the sound of her tone will warm me. I wish she knew how much I love her. How the pain she's endured still lives within me, etched into my soul like a scar, I carry for her.

The gift she gives to the world is the love and fire she's placed in her little brother. Scars make us who we are; this flesh is only temporary, melting back into the dirt with each passing day. No one can outrun their past. From generation to generation, our community shapes the conditions of our future.

One day, even the hangman will feel the sting of burning tears. I know this truth: pain waits for us all, no matter our colors or backgrounds.

Every Second, Every Minute, Every Hour

I plant new rose seeds, filling my lungs with the scent of the earth. The slightly sweet aroma of pine trees, tall as the walls I've built to keep people out, mingles with the rich, damp scent of soil and decomposing leaves after the rain. It is us—our bodies, our minds—as the days pass. Sometimes, I wonder: Does the forest ever look back after a burning? Or is the fire simply a cleansing, a beginning of something new?

Placing my feet firmly against the tree trunk, I find myself drawn to the healing power of nature. This tree is steady, alive, and rooted deeply in the earth. Yet again, I stand here, always afraid to climb, even as the sunlight dances at the top of the gray skies where I've lived most of my life. No wonder I've learned to love the rain, the cold, the snow—every element of grief.

I see her face—my sister's face—her smile, her eyes, her warmth. The heartbeat of the tree fades with each pull, replaced by something more substantial: her voice.

"Lataurus, you're almost there. Don't close your eyes. Don't look down. Look up and feel the sunrays of hope."

And I climb.

The blows, the pain—they're still there, etched into my memory. But the weight of that pain is gone. I no longer live in that moment, even though my tears remain tattooed on my eyes.

Now, I sit among the clouds, feeling the warmth of the sun's rays, and for the first time, her spirit no longer cries. She rests in my arms, and I tell her, with all the love I've carried through the years, "I love you."

Her gentle hand traces the crust of my dried tears, and in that moment, she holds me—not just as her little brother, but as someone who has climbed out of the shadows we both once shared. She kisses my spirit, and with her love, the weight I've carried begins to lift.

Capricorn Kisses