Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
He’s been seventeen for about ten years longer than he should have been. He’s not quite sure why, but he likes to think, to speculate, that maybe it’s because those are the days he likes to preserve, to keep locked in an air-tight jar and stored somewhere where he can always see them but never lose them. Because those were days of sun, of simplicity, when things hurt for the sake of hurting and not because there was any real stimulus for pain. Because back then, back in those sweet, blue-skied days, when the two of them made love in the storage closet where he worked and they ground against each other in a blurred, swirling mixture of color and scent and hips and rounded, wet tongues and names that were gasped in mindless moments of physical and emotional passion.
He should have turned eighteen (and nineteen and twenty) but somewhere along the lines he placed a roadblock in that path and his mentality slammed head-first into that stubborn wall. He refused to change because if he changed he might lose everything that actually kept him sane those three hundred and sixty-five says that he was seventeen.
Like Frank. Frank kept him sane- kept him more than sane- kept him feeling alive and happy and just simply pulsing with feeling. And Frank taught him more about what was right and what was wrong and about sex and love and art and happiness in simplicity than he could ever learn from parents or college or the simple coming of life itself. He was an enigma, a walking, breathing, angel of a human who just seemed to know/. And even /then/- even when they were both awkward teenagers who cut their own hair and knew the way the world worked- Frank just carried this aura of /nostalgia. Wherever he was and wherever he showed up it was as if he’d been gone somewhere between and decade and forever and was just stopping by to say hello and resurrect dead memories.
There wasn’t anything to remember, now. Nothing he wanted to remember, actually. There should have been a sadness, a sort of despondency, but there wasn’t. Frank went out the way he had lived: almost as if he was doing it by accident. He didn’t go out with a bang; it would have been more surprising if he did. He simply went to bed one night, probably the same way he always did; curling up in those sheets the two of them had kissed and touched and awkwardly made love in, and just…didn’t wake up. Aneurism of some sort. That’s what they said. It didn’t matter.
He was always going to be seventeen because Frank had been seventeen. It was as if some higher power had seen that the years were going to rape him of what made him beautiful and decided that the only way to preserve him was to just take him.
He doesn’t cry anymore and he tries not to visit Frank’s grave. He doesn’t mourn with his family and on Frank’s birthday he stays inside, expecting and getting phone calls but not responding to them. He takes the medicine that makes him light enough so that he doesn’t kill himself and throws out the ones that make him too happy. It’s a fake sort of happy, a plastic sort of happy. The only real happy he ever felt was when his parents didn’t know what the two of them were doing in the basement. For some reason it makes him realize how much he dislikes the word boyfriend. It leaves room for failure and makes him feel sick.
He misses Frank but doesn’t want him back. He wants to go back to a time when things were simple and gas cost two dollars less. He wants summer and kissing and two lips that don’t lie. He wants to go back to being seventeen, because neither of them will get any older. Because nothing will ever change.
He should have turned eighteen (and nineteen and twenty) but somewhere along the lines he placed a roadblock in that path and his mentality slammed head-first into that stubborn wall. He refused to change because if he changed he might lose everything that actually kept him sane those three hundred and sixty-five says that he was seventeen.
Like Frank. Frank kept him sane- kept him more than sane- kept him feeling alive and happy and just simply pulsing with feeling. And Frank taught him more about what was right and what was wrong and about sex and love and art and happiness in simplicity than he could ever learn from parents or college or the simple coming of life itself. He was an enigma, a walking, breathing, angel of a human who just seemed to know/. And even /then/- even when they were both awkward teenagers who cut their own hair and knew the way the world worked- Frank just carried this aura of /nostalgia. Wherever he was and wherever he showed up it was as if he’d been gone somewhere between and decade and forever and was just stopping by to say hello and resurrect dead memories.
There wasn’t anything to remember, now. Nothing he wanted to remember, actually. There should have been a sadness, a sort of despondency, but there wasn’t. Frank went out the way he had lived: almost as if he was doing it by accident. He didn’t go out with a bang; it would have been more surprising if he did. He simply went to bed one night, probably the same way he always did; curling up in those sheets the two of them had kissed and touched and awkwardly made love in, and just…didn’t wake up. Aneurism of some sort. That’s what they said. It didn’t matter.
He was always going to be seventeen because Frank had been seventeen. It was as if some higher power had seen that the years were going to rape him of what made him beautiful and decided that the only way to preserve him was to just take him.
He doesn’t cry anymore and he tries not to visit Frank’s grave. He doesn’t mourn with his family and on Frank’s birthday he stays inside, expecting and getting phone calls but not responding to them. He takes the medicine that makes him light enough so that he doesn’t kill himself and throws out the ones that make him too happy. It’s a fake sort of happy, a plastic sort of happy. The only real happy he ever felt was when his parents didn’t know what the two of them were doing in the basement. For some reason it makes him realize how much he dislikes the word boyfriend. It leaves room for failure and makes him feel sick.
He misses Frank but doesn’t want him back. He wants to go back to a time when things were simple and gas cost two dollars less. He wants summer and kissing and two lips that don’t lie. He wants to go back to being seventeen, because neither of them will get any older. Because nothing will ever change.
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