[P] and I know this is a weakness;

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

He talks of gods and monsters with eyes as dark as crypts, full of dangerous secrets. Pain makes her move upon her bed, water that ever flows ever pushes her body into motion. Ah to be a current and flow away from the pain of her wounds.
 
Yet this boy makes her run dry, has sand drying up the wet of her lips, her tongue. Her words fall dry like dunes and her veins become naught but tunnels of air. What secrets he hides, what secrets she yearns for. She leans closer, reaching from her pillows like the moon toward the earth. Florentine is empty of history, empty of words and names that made her whole. She thinks he might know everything, behind those dark and cryptic eyes.
 
She pushes sand from her lips with a laugh and tastes the red of blood. Oh it bubbles in her throat like a brook, happy and yet so wrong. Oh she is a garden cut low, with wilting flowers and blood upon the ash of the earth. But every inch of her is fertile now, a space to grow; a new garden she will be an echo of her old, a painting remade.
 
But not just yet.
 
He smiles darker than his eyes, darker than the shadows that yawn within her empty mind. Danger lingers upon those lips, curling wicked and wild at their corners. Empty of memories but full of her, Florentine leans closer still.
 
“We are.” She says, as if she knows they are both fools, forever and always.
 
A monster, he sighs with a dark wind that rattles not only branches, but her bones, and her soul. “Are you accomplished at being wrong?” The flower girl asks as she lets her gaze fall to the wreath upon her pillow.
 
Anthousai.
 
Worlds twist and turn and beg her to remember. Time presses sharp as her dagger upon her skin, as the arches of her mind. Her eyes close, as if her memories of gods and nymphs are just a reach away. Yet when her eyes open, there is no recognition there, just solemn lips and solemn eyes that fear who she might have been. “Do I have a wrath to be so feared?” Her head tilts, dark wonder seeping like ink, like eels in her veins. Her lips pull down but her heart begins to skip and her eyes fall round as the silver moon.
 
He is a shadow before her, with lamp light lit behind him. Antlers are dark promises, snagging like barbs within her sight, she feels their pain within her stranger’s heart. “Tell me how have you wronged me?” She hums a shadow, hot like fire, black like devilry. But in gold she lifts from her pillow to better look for the secrets he hides within those verdant eyes.
 
“I do not remember that word.” She breathes but her lips remember anyway and say, “You call me that.” Discord reigns within her, memories creating a truth she does not know, cannot pinpoint.
 
“I think I am the lucky one if I cannot remember how you have wronged me.” Her lips curl down, worry and warning creeping along her nerves like static before a storm. “I fear it is too easy to like you, Lysander.” Slowly she lowers back upon the bed, though she cannot temper the desire to feel his touch again.

@Lysander

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world