i used to pray like god was listening
i used to make my parents proud
i used to make my parents proud
It’s interesting, that she would look at you and think of a weapon–not the creation of one but the weapon itself, sharp and poised and ready–when you have never felt like this tall, jagged mountain she wants. You have only ever felt small. Weak. Empty.
You are small, weak, empty - and though your bones rebel, though they stretch and grind and ache as you grew, you will only ever be small, weak, empty.
To echo: right?
She smiles like you might smile if you weren’t paying attention, as if she only halfway knows how. You know this look well, wear it day and night, and it drags something like sympathy out of you, a feeling that begs you to rest a wing on hers, tell her it’s alright, and never quite say just what “it”is. Instead it just tucks that one corner of your mouth in a little tighter, draws your brow together almost imperceptibly, puffs your cheeks out as you breathe through pursed lips the second she turns her back.
All your things are in their places now, or close enough. The clutter, you know, is just clean enough to settle your frayed nerves but still messy enough that you fold yourself back into it if you need to, run and run and run until you are buried in the calming clink of metal or the wooden shuff of drawers opening, and drawers closing.
The silence is prolonged. Marisol is still looking at you like that and it sets your teeth on edge, sends your wings shuffling themselves over your back, folding and re-folding in an attempt to find a comfort that you have never quite mastered. The silence makes you wordlessly wish for your body to dissolve. You are privately wishing you could stop your heart just by wanting it badly enough up until the second she draws a breath to speak.
Did your family ever work on Prudence?
Your lips purse. Your wings shuffle again. In spite of your best efforts your body still stubbornly refuses to dissolve.
That one corner of your smile untucks itself. It is perhaps the most sober you’ve looked in years. “I’d assume so.” you say, a sentence that falls out of you like a rock and clatters at it hits the ground. The only thing that outweighs your sudden and unbelievable grief is your curiosity. “Whyyy?”
You are small, weak, empty - and though your bones rebel, though they stretch and grind and ache as you grew, you will only ever be small, weak, empty.
To echo: right?
She smiles like you might smile if you weren’t paying attention, as if she only halfway knows how. You know this look well, wear it day and night, and it drags something like sympathy out of you, a feeling that begs you to rest a wing on hers, tell her it’s alright, and never quite say just what “it”is. Instead it just tucks that one corner of your mouth in a little tighter, draws your brow together almost imperceptibly, puffs your cheeks out as you breathe through pursed lips the second she turns her back.
All your things are in their places now, or close enough. The clutter, you know, is just clean enough to settle your frayed nerves but still messy enough that you fold yourself back into it if you need to, run and run and run until you are buried in the calming clink of metal or the wooden shuff of drawers opening, and drawers closing.
The silence is prolonged. Marisol is still looking at you like that and it sets your teeth on edge, sends your wings shuffling themselves over your back, folding and re-folding in an attempt to find a comfort that you have never quite mastered. The silence makes you wordlessly wish for your body to dissolve. You are privately wishing you could stop your heart just by wanting it badly enough up until the second she draws a breath to speak.
Did your family ever work on Prudence?
Your lips purse. Your wings shuffle again. In spite of your best efforts your body still stubbornly refuses to dissolve.
That one corner of your smile untucks itself. It is perhaps the most sober you’ve looked in years. “I’d assume so.” you say, a sentence that falls out of you like a rock and clatters at it hits the ground. The only thing that outweighs your sudden and unbelievable grief is your curiosity. “Whyyy?”
Hugo Arkwright
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