Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Each of his touches, each line he traces across her skin through the golden pollen, feels like a line carved into the million sharp-shards of her soul. All the pieces of her below skin, and horn, and violence, tremble finely as the grass around them when the wind comes tumbling through heavy as a stone. Thana feels reformed by the weight of his touch, reshaped and broken down all at once.
For the first time, Thana feels something other than longing, and aching, and violence. The fire running through her veins, the blaze of life hotter than a solar flare, has nothing to do with the creation of this from of hers. It's always felt like ice before, like the blaze of a tundra forming over her bones. Now it feels like creation, like a cosmic explosion trapped in the shape of a unicorn.
Thana wonders if her horn could carve out the sky now, instead of flesh and rage.
Her black-magic soul shatters. Like glass it runs through her and she presses hard against him just to keep whatever pieces are left of her from during into dust and floating away on the breeze. Would the pieces of her grow flowers like seeds, or only bones like bits of disease carries on the wind? Would she make anything at all?
“To me,”. Thana pauses, turns, and traces a line down his face to press her nose to his. She breathes in his death once. She exhales pollen, and moss back to him. Thana feels the touch down to her shattered soul. Between them it has always been more than flesh. Like golden saplings half frozen and half new-born, it has always been more. “death has always been home.”Thana isn't talking about names, not anymore. The island hold little appeal for her in the shadow of Ipomoea.
The shiver returns to her spine, to the form of her bent beneath this touch like she's made of branches instead of bone.
And maybe with him she is. All her violence torn down to roots, and dirt, and molten blood where hard, black magma should be.
For now it's enough, to forget about poachers, and the way she's killing his forest each time she lays her cheek against an oak and drifts into the horror of her dreamstuff. It's enough to listen to the violet waterfalls roaring like lions and the lamb-like sighing of dying grass against what little of their skin is not pressed together. It's enough to press her lips to his, like she's dying to find all the things called home buried beneath the soil of his form.
“Where is your home?” Thana, who has always been one moment away from devouring the world, asks the question as she closes her eyes and listens to nothing more than the rotten inhale of death in and out of Ipomoea's lungs.
She does not listen to the seed and life slipping in and out of hers.
@Ipomoea
"Speaking."
For the first time, Thana feels something other than longing, and aching, and violence. The fire running through her veins, the blaze of life hotter than a solar flare, has nothing to do with the creation of this from of hers. It's always felt like ice before, like the blaze of a tundra forming over her bones. Now it feels like creation, like a cosmic explosion trapped in the shape of a unicorn.
Thana wonders if her horn could carve out the sky now, instead of flesh and rage.
Her black-magic soul shatters. Like glass it runs through her and she presses hard against him just to keep whatever pieces are left of her from during into dust and floating away on the breeze. Would the pieces of her grow flowers like seeds, or only bones like bits of disease carries on the wind? Would she make anything at all?
“To me,”. Thana pauses, turns, and traces a line down his face to press her nose to his. She breathes in his death once. She exhales pollen, and moss back to him. Thana feels the touch down to her shattered soul. Between them it has always been more than flesh. Like golden saplings half frozen and half new-born, it has always been more. “death has always been home.”Thana isn't talking about names, not anymore. The island hold little appeal for her in the shadow of Ipomoea.
The shiver returns to her spine, to the form of her bent beneath this touch like she's made of branches instead of bone.
And maybe with him she is. All her violence torn down to roots, and dirt, and molten blood where hard, black magma should be.
For now it's enough, to forget about poachers, and the way she's killing his forest each time she lays her cheek against an oak and drifts into the horror of her dreamstuff. It's enough to listen to the violet waterfalls roaring like lions and the lamb-like sighing of dying grass against what little of their skin is not pressed together. It's enough to press her lips to his, like she's dying to find all the things called home buried beneath the soil of his form.
“Where is your home?” Thana, who has always been one moment away from devouring the world, asks the question as she closes her eyes and listens to nothing more than the rotten inhale of death in and out of Ipomoea's lungs.
She does not listen to the seed and life slipping in and out of hers.
@Ipomoea
