you shouldn't have to pay for your love
with your bones and your flesh
with your bones and your flesh
The pale stranger is tall enough he has to crane his head backwards, peering up like Toro might be the kind of God that lurks upon mountains and lets one young man spill out his sorrows unabidden. ”But you continue on,” rings in his ears after too many breaths of silence, after the boy shows the soft skin of his throat in his vulnerability, and he could almost weep at how kind the solemn reaction is compared to the only other time he had given voice to his thoughts of death.
(The scars on his cheek are testament to how badly his father had reacted. He had learned never to mention such things again.)
“Yes,” He exhales, still so quiet you might have to strain your ears to hear it, and in his mind he can still see Theodosia standing there. “I can’t -- I can’t let her down like that.” The words tumble from his lips like a prayer, like if he stops he might never be able to speak of this again, and his voice trembles with every word. “She doesn’t know, and -- I don’t ever want her to find out how weak her father is.”
He wonders if this mountain God would understand the loathing he feels for himself, the self-hatred that runs a heavy current beneath his words, and he chokes out a bitter sort of laugh at himself.
“S-sorry… you probably have better things to do than listen to me.”
@El Toro
you were only a boy,
when you were thrown into a war.
when you were thrown into a war.
