[align=center][div style="width: 455px; text-align: justify; font-family: nyala; font-size: 8pt; letter-spacing: 1px; color: #000"]Ayon Montero
— Limbs always trembling, never so sure how to carry anything, not even his own weight. Eyes on anywhere but eyes. Feels too intrusive. Too close. Look away. Go away. Head often lowers & hands on back or pockets to express passive attitude. He reeks of blood and chains, but he promises he only have himself to pin on. & he rarely promises. Rocks back and forth when fear sings to him. Sweaty palms, heavy soul, he cries crimson. Stares at the unknown, oblivious to reality. Too many times, never ending habit. Feels like he’s dreaming. Floating. He tries to touch whatever is out there to see if what’s real and what’s not. Please, don’t make him go to the unknown. He hopes he’s not tapping against a television screen. Hoping hurts.
— A little man, & a little monster, in a vessel he can’t ever tell if it is truly his or someone else. Always, is he trying to scrub the sins off of his skin, & yet, all he sees is red. Red eyes. Red roses. Red lies. Iron teeth presses into tongue, he bleeds agony & spills them on himself, choking on agony, demeanor coats in cowardice. Celestial child with a voice & movements akin to a ghost—faint, but knowing—as his words & fingertips cakes with blood. Often mistaken for honey. His pace are slow, and thickens with unclear emotions, but full of sweet offerings nevertheless. Flesh fragile from merciless bites of flames & oceans, thrown in by both strangers & loved ones. Despite it all, his heart still beats kindness, & that’s what makes his tragedy a masterpiece. Let him weep & bleed. It’s what makes him brave.
— Limbs always trembling, never so sure how to carry anything, not even his own weight. Eyes on anywhere but eyes. Feels too intrusive. Too close. Look away. Go away. Head often lowers & hands on back or pockets to express passive attitude. He reeks of blood and chains, but he promises he only have himself to pin on. & he rarely promises. Rocks back and forth when fear sings to him. Sweaty palms, heavy soul, he cries crimson. Stares at the unknown, oblivious to reality. Too many times, never ending habit. Feels like he’s dreaming. Floating. He tries to touch whatever is out there to see if what’s real and what’s not. Please, don’t make him go to the unknown. He hopes he’s not tapping against a television screen. Hoping hurts.
— A little man, & a little monster, in a vessel he can’t ever tell if it is truly his or someone else. Always, is he trying to scrub the sins off of his skin, & yet, all he sees is red. Red eyes. Red roses. Red lies. Iron teeth presses into tongue, he bleeds agony & spills them on himself, choking on agony, demeanor coats in cowardice. Celestial child with a voice & movements akin to a ghost—faint, but knowing—as his words & fingertips cakes with blood. Often mistaken for honey. His pace are slow, and thickens with unclear emotions, but full of sweet offerings nevertheless. Flesh fragile from merciless bites of flames & oceans, thrown in by both strangers & loved ones. Despite it all, his heart still beats kindness, & that’s what makes his tragedy a masterpiece. Let him weep & bleed. It’s what makes him brave.