I swear to god
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
Michael has been loved. Desperately. Fiercely. Jealously.
And Michael has loved, as if the crust of the earth was sustained by his waking each day more grateful than the last. He has loved as he imagines a volcano might, all bubbling magma and burning rock and the sacrifice of innocents in the name of his great hot fire. And, later, Michael had loved as a real heart might, thumping in someone's chest, not desperate to keep them alive but sure that he must. Michael has loved purposefully. Michael has loved in servitude and silence.
If hell were a place surely it is within him - in the pregnant silence between them, in the way his mouth trembles, in the breath he takes too quietly as if to keep her from hearing. Though almost soundless, though slow and methodical, it hisses between his clenched teeth. It's an accusatory hiss, punctuated his weight shifting opposite her. Michael is staring as Isra and he is hoping more than he has hoped most things that she will take it back nonetheless.
She doesn't. She wouldn't.
He does not say so very many things.
"Yes," he answers. It is not easy to get out. "at some point. I think it's easier than I'd like."
He tries to laugh to break the tension but what comes out is a sharp huff that gets swallowed by the warm breeze. Michael has never felt so cold.
He doesn't ask her, why? but the question hangs in his eyes like as many stars.
He doesn't. He wouldn't. Even though asks this painful thing of him.
But he does want to know.
In the distance are Isra's dragon and Isra's daughters and Michael sees them now, bright and curious against the choppy surface of the lake.
@isra
And Michael has loved, as if the crust of the earth was sustained by his waking each day more grateful than the last. He has loved as he imagines a volcano might, all bubbling magma and burning rock and the sacrifice of innocents in the name of his great hot fire. And, later, Michael had loved as a real heart might, thumping in someone's chest, not desperate to keep them alive but sure that he must. Michael has loved purposefully. Michael has loved in servitude and silence.
If hell were a place surely it is within him - in the pregnant silence between them, in the way his mouth trembles, in the breath he takes too quietly as if to keep her from hearing. Though almost soundless, though slow and methodical, it hisses between his clenched teeth. It's an accusatory hiss, punctuated his weight shifting opposite her. Michael is staring as Isra and he is hoping more than he has hoped most things that she will take it back nonetheless.
She doesn't. She wouldn't.
He does not say so very many things.
"Yes," he answers. It is not easy to get out. "at some point. I think it's easier than I'd like."
He tries to laugh to break the tension but what comes out is a sharp huff that gets swallowed by the warm breeze. Michael has never felt so cold.
He doesn't ask her, why? but the question hangs in his eyes like as many stars.
He doesn't. He wouldn't. Even though asks this painful thing of him.
But he does want to know.
In the distance are Isra's dragon and Isra's daughters and Michael sees them now, bright and curious against the choppy surface of the lake.
@isra
