Wapun Meadow boorish

Taylor smiles again, but this time there is something terribly wrong with the smile— whether its the blood climbing up between the cracks or the degree of which his facial muscles had pivoted or how his eyes remained staring, constant, the pupil whittled down to a pinprick. He had never truly learned to smile.
Every nerve, awake and exposed and shrieking. He had never truly learned to live.
Let me help you, he wrestles these words out from his miserly lungs. His heart was scrawling across octaves and tempos like it was no big deal. He wears this new emotion like a tailored suit, cups it in his hands, disinterested mad scientist. To clean the world. So close. So close that he sees nothing but Merrick.
A pause. A beat. A breath, all of these, tinged with blood. They cannot touch us. The feeling of being an empty, rushing metro terminal. The feeling of being a mouthpiece to something indescribable. To be a weapon.