pumped up kicks [] hemmo [cs]

targets

[dedicated to arcticpeters for the cover and horizonharry as well for both being a few of my favorite people, i love them honestly like sisters and idk where'd i be without them. Special mention to satired , tidalpool , mclahey , hemnesia , AintThatDevine , alitimelow_ , APOLLOSHARP , spookyblack , breakfastclxb , -daddyirwin , dulect , beastieboys- , boy-division , ashtoniwrins , horribIe , centuxies , cIifford- , ultralukes , lousers- , memelordmgc , tomlin-fox , lukeycuddles , royalmukes , Haylsey , raybanned , kaleidoscopie , and many others for being so supportive as well. enjoy x]

Delilah,
Delilah,
Delilah.
Luke loved to loathe her,
pick out every flaw,
like she did to him,
before her downfall at least.
Freshman year she was bright-eyed,
not a scath on her reputation,
the kind of girl every parent either wanted their son to date, or daughter to be like.
Delilah wore her mask for fifteen years,
but with those years came cracks,
and mascara stains,
"cat scratches".
The cracks got deeper,
black got blacker,
legs got skinnier,
the demons got louder.
With the demons came white fairy dust,
and making lust,
broken angel wings,
and cold to touch.
As she fell she clawed others down with her,
trying to use their downfalls as stepping stools,
crushing frail hands,
bruised hearts,
everything and anyone in her path,
because what she feared most was happening,
her mask collapsed.
She became a joke,
a legend,
nothing but a smutherment of scars and cigarettes and broken dreams,
just an object for sex.
Luke didn't care about her pain though,
he couldn't understand
or begin to tame the monster behind her bagged blue eyes.
He just knows she started his hurt,
and she was going to suffer for it.

Calum was a similar story.
Calum was the boy that looked like he had it all together.
High test scores,
high society,
but high on seems to be everything else.
He smoked away his problems.
Forgot Luke like he seemed to forget himself.
Snorted away the feel of his father touching him.
Took hits the same way his stepfather hit him.
Dealed how his mother sold her body
to sleezy men and vodka.
He's an actor
on closing night,
the end is near,
in the form of needles and white lines,
but he's still in bliss until the final bow.
Or as Luke intends,
the final blow.

Carly believed in perfection.
She was going to attend Brown in the fall,
major in English,
find a lawyer or doctor,
get hitched,
get rich,
pop out a few kids,
and be the country club stepford wife that was in her eyes,
successful.
She'd come too far,
skipped too many meals,
spent too many hours studying,
but Luke didn't care about how hard she worked to become this submissive ideal.
Luke only cared how she rejected him,
took away his son or daughter with a trip to the clinic and numbed extraction,
because in her eyes,
it all wasn't good enough.
It wasn't perfection.
But now Luke was seeking perfection,
in the form of one of her pristine sundresses splattered in blood.

Michael was the enemy,
had been since Luke could remember.
His knuckles bruised,
skin pale,
fingernails tinted yellow from nicotine,
eyes bloodshot from weed or tears;
nobody seemed to know what Michael hated or what hated Michael.
The equation was infathomable,
where his own flaws began
to where he was wronged.
He spent nights in handcuffs
and others hidden beneath his bed,
either way facing demons that plagued his head.
He had marks of ink,
other scars of self-infliction,
all told a story that's nearing the last chapter.
Luke just wanted to finish him.

McKenzie was highschool royalty.
Harvard bound just like her father was,
and her sister
and her brother.
She came from a dynasty of people who had sticks up their asses,
their noses in books,
names on awards,
money in their hands,
and were of course,
class presidents.
Now McKenzie never harmed Luke with her fake smiles
and crocidile teared speeches,
he hadn't spoken a word to her since freshman biology.
But Luke saw the harm McKenzie did
and even being the fucker he was,
she made him sick to his stomach.
From her mouth fell slurs,
fag
and
queer
and
pussy
and
freak.
None of them scholarly vocabulary,
'Good Citizen',
'Stellar Example',
'Valedictorian',
to Luke she was only a Homophobe.
And if Luke found himself sick enough for death,
might as well drag another cunt down to hell with him.

Ashton was a nice guy,
was.
He was Luke's friend,
was.
He was a gentleman,
was.
Luke thought he knew who Ashton was.
Actually he did know who he was,
just not who he had become.
Ashton was all cheshire cat smiles
and sunshine giggles,
the boy next store
on the outside.
But on the inside he was hollow,
a back stabber,
a heart breaker,
a goddamn lie.
And Luke didn't like liars,
who did really?
Especially liars who fuck their friend's girlfriends
and play cradlerobber,
make movies
with naked girls who don't even know they're stars.
Ashton was the golden boy,
but Luke had a golden boy of his own as well.
A bullet,
that with percesion,
will shatter that sick smile and ricochet through his skull.

The date circled in red on his calendar, february 14th.
A day for each to prove
if they win they live,
if they die they lose.

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A/N

nothing like homicidal tendencies to say happy valentine's day, amirite ladies?

vote, comment, share, and all that jazz x

ily all to bits and i hope that the booty blesses you with a good fuck or at least choclate

-ali