and bury it before it buries me
Elena knows what it is like to see your ghosts, and had she known the grief she caused him, she would have coated herself in darkness to spare him the agony of familiarity.
There is salvation in the gentle ebb and flow of the waves, foamy crests curling gently above the abyss but not disturbing it, crabs sidestepping quietly across the beach, leaving pinprick footsteps in the wet sand. She wonders if this is the sort of piece you feel before you are born, before the moment when you are brought into the world.
She does not remember being born. Not that first gasp of air or the way her lungs had felt when they first expanded, when life flooded her veins and her eyes fluttered open to find her mother for the very first time. She does not remember the sun on her skin or the way the world had cooled when the clouds rolled out to watch her first steps, or how strangely exhilarating it had been when her legs wobbled forward and her delicate body stayed aloft.
She knows they happened, all those beautiful moments that her parents had been there to witness. But they are not memories for Elena, nothing things she can look back on and feel emotion stir in her chest as it must have all those years ago. Instead they are factual, bits of knowledge, things she knows must have happened because they happen to everyone.
At this moment she didn't know that just the night before, another had been born and one day they would mirror each other within eyes of blue.
For all of its scars, Elena’s heart should be more guarded than it is.
Perhaps she is foolish.
Perhaps she should hide it away, lock it up, keep it safe. Perhaps she should not let it leap into her throat whenever she sees another who cries, who aches, who smiles, who laughs. Perhaps she should be wise.
But she is not.
She cannot be.
Elena loves burying herself in the emotions of others far too much to seclude herself away from the world and its turmoil.
‘An easy life is what I want,’ she has said.
‘An easy life is what I want,’ she has lied.
It is in quick succession that she hears him, sees him, and is at hide side. Elena thinks perhaps only a heartbeat, maybe two had passed. She is at his side, with gentle and quieting ‘shh’ being muffled into his ear in much the same way her grandmother had done for her a long time ago when she returned to Windskeep and wept at the graves of her parents. She wants to cry with him, crumble to the ground and let the tears flow. Because she aches for him, for herself, for all the things wrong in the world that she doesn't know what they are. You wouldn’t see the fear of the small shattered thing within her. You wouldn’t see the cracks that spiderweb out around her, threatening to buckle her knees with memory. Because she stands there so steady against his form, offering her shoulder his tears and her heart for his sorrow.
“Do you want to tell me about her?” She asks, this shouldn't be that difficult, comforting another, but she finds that other words nearly form, but they die quickly—escaping her mouth in a soft exhale. “I can go,” she asks, no matter how much she wishes to stay. “I can,” she repeats, convincing herself, she could walk away. “But, if you want me to—I can stay.”
There is salvation in the gentle ebb and flow of the waves, foamy crests curling gently above the abyss but not disturbing it, crabs sidestepping quietly across the beach, leaving pinprick footsteps in the wet sand. She wonders if this is the sort of piece you feel before you are born, before the moment when you are brought into the world.
She does not remember being born. Not that first gasp of air or the way her lungs had felt when they first expanded, when life flooded her veins and her eyes fluttered open to find her mother for the very first time. She does not remember the sun on her skin or the way the world had cooled when the clouds rolled out to watch her first steps, or how strangely exhilarating it had been when her legs wobbled forward and her delicate body stayed aloft.
She knows they happened, all those beautiful moments that her parents had been there to witness. But they are not memories for Elena, nothing things she can look back on and feel emotion stir in her chest as it must have all those years ago. Instead they are factual, bits of knowledge, things she knows must have happened because they happen to everyone.
At this moment she didn't know that just the night before, another had been born and one day they would mirror each other within eyes of blue.
For all of its scars, Elena’s heart should be more guarded than it is.
Perhaps she is foolish.
Perhaps she should hide it away, lock it up, keep it safe. Perhaps she should not let it leap into her throat whenever she sees another who cries, who aches, who smiles, who laughs. Perhaps she should be wise.
But she is not.
She cannot be.
Elena loves burying herself in the emotions of others far too much to seclude herself away from the world and its turmoil.
‘An easy life is what I want,’ she has said.
‘An easy life is what I want,’ she has lied.
It is in quick succession that she hears him, sees him, and is at hide side. Elena thinks perhaps only a heartbeat, maybe two had passed. She is at his side, with gentle and quieting ‘shh’ being muffled into his ear in much the same way her grandmother had done for her a long time ago when she returned to Windskeep and wept at the graves of her parents. She wants to cry with him, crumble to the ground and let the tears flow. Because she aches for him, for herself, for all the things wrong in the world that she doesn't know what they are. You wouldn’t see the fear of the small shattered thing within her. You wouldn’t see the cracks that spiderweb out around her, threatening to buckle her knees with memory. Because she stands there so steady against his form, offering her shoulder his tears and her heart for his sorrow.
“Do you want to tell me about her?” She asks, this shouldn't be that difficult, comforting another, but she finds that other words nearly form, but they die quickly—escaping her mouth in a soft exhale. “I can go,” she asks, no matter how much she wishes to stay. “I can,” she repeats, convincing herself, she could walk away. “But, if you want me to—I can stay.”
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@Lyr
![[Image: ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db...0iFb4PvyXE]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/8026a53b-dc57-41ab-b574-9f8a8fe57ce4/ddvotwe-59302ba6-6a81-47bf-9846-30c5a5db0780.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzgwMjZhNTNiLWRjNTctNDFhYi1iNTc0LTlmOGE4ZmU1N2NlNFwvZGR2b3R3ZS01OTMwMmJhNi02YTgxLTQ3YmYtOTg0Ni0zMGM1YTVkYjA3ODAucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.ujCJH7FAbsQhfZlQniMmEd_vw-VmvaTDn0iFb4PvyXE)
let's light this house on fire
we'll dance in the warmth of its blaze
pixel made by the amazing star
