and bury it before it buries me
How much hurt can one heart hold?
How much pain can one soul suffer?
Is it equal to the amount of love one can feel?
(She finds them all to be nearly equal.)
These are questions that have haunted Elena. Questions that dig deep into her soul, anchoring it down like a ship. She still doesn't know the answer. She tries to have an infinite capacity to love, to bear the burden of others, to have that endless trust and strength in her heart. But it gets harder, oh does it get harder as time goes on and on. She wonders how her mother had done it. Elena had desperately loved her mother. She had worshipped her. When she had been little she had wanted nothing more than to grow into the grace and beauty her mother had achieved, to be so caring and so gracious. Elena cannot help but feel that maybe she is letting her down.
He turns his face away from her and Elena’s heart aches a little more. And then his eyes find her own of silver blue and she cannot help the small, comforting smile that stalls on her lips. She so desperately wants to wipe them away and brighten his face, but she knows there is nothing she can do to heal his heart faster. So she does nothing but offer him that smile, but the ends of it do not quite curl so high knowing how useless of an offer it is to him.
Death has plagued her for so long in her life. She had seen the death of her parents, the sort of death that sends reverberations in your flesh and shake you to your care. But, even after the shock had turned numb, to a bitter acceptance Elena had not been able to help but feel it still. Those icy finger tips creeping across her grief-weary throat. She would not be its victim, it would be others. Sometimes she thinks she can hear the undertaker’s scythe trailing behind the ones she loves, metal scrapping against earth. It echoes in those brief, purgatory moments between sleeping and awake. Grief conjures illusions far worse than any magician ever could.
“Please don’t,” she says to him, casting his apology to the wind as easy as if it were flower petals. He opens his eyes again and Elena cannot believe how beautiful they are and how she hadn't noticed before. Like two perfect rubies.
He utters a single word and Elena hangs onto it, wanting to offer him every bit of her soul in a futile attempt to give him solace. (Though Elena knows that chasing closure is like chasing the sun, it disappears, only to return like a beacon of hope before running away over the horizon once more.) She listens to his words, thoughtfully, solemnly, her face warming as he speaks of his sister. She doesn't ask how she died. That question, that question she knows burns. They had lived a whole life, and when it is concentrated on those final moments, that is what brings the hurt to the forefront.
Illness.
Murder.
In the end they are gone.
She blossoms beneath his attention without even realizing it. Elena has always needed to be needed, and it feels right in this moment. “It’s terrible,” she says, because she cant say it gets better because he probably already knows that it doesn’t. Maybe for some people, but Elena is still waiting for that moment to come.
“Please don’t,” she repeats those same words, though with a different meaning, this holds a plea. “I hate watching the sunset alone.” She admits with a shy smile, like the sun peeking over the mountainside of a home she once called her own. She turns those blue eyes to him, looking up at him from beneath those long, dark lashes. “I’m Elena, please, sit with me a while?”
How much pain can one soul suffer?
Is it equal to the amount of love one can feel?
(She finds them all to be nearly equal.)
These are questions that have haunted Elena. Questions that dig deep into her soul, anchoring it down like a ship. She still doesn't know the answer. She tries to have an infinite capacity to love, to bear the burden of others, to have that endless trust and strength in her heart. But it gets harder, oh does it get harder as time goes on and on. She wonders how her mother had done it. Elena had desperately loved her mother. She had worshipped her. When she had been little she had wanted nothing more than to grow into the grace and beauty her mother had achieved, to be so caring and so gracious. Elena cannot help but feel that maybe she is letting her down.
He turns his face away from her and Elena’s heart aches a little more. And then his eyes find her own of silver blue and she cannot help the small, comforting smile that stalls on her lips. She so desperately wants to wipe them away and brighten his face, but she knows there is nothing she can do to heal his heart faster. So she does nothing but offer him that smile, but the ends of it do not quite curl so high knowing how useless of an offer it is to him.
Death has plagued her for so long in her life. She had seen the death of her parents, the sort of death that sends reverberations in your flesh and shake you to your care. But, even after the shock had turned numb, to a bitter acceptance Elena had not been able to help but feel it still. Those icy finger tips creeping across her grief-weary throat. She would not be its victim, it would be others. Sometimes she thinks she can hear the undertaker’s scythe trailing behind the ones she loves, metal scrapping against earth. It echoes in those brief, purgatory moments between sleeping and awake. Grief conjures illusions far worse than any magician ever could.
“Please don’t,” she says to him, casting his apology to the wind as easy as if it were flower petals. He opens his eyes again and Elena cannot believe how beautiful they are and how she hadn't noticed before. Like two perfect rubies.
He utters a single word and Elena hangs onto it, wanting to offer him every bit of her soul in a futile attempt to give him solace. (Though Elena knows that chasing closure is like chasing the sun, it disappears, only to return like a beacon of hope before running away over the horizon once more.) She listens to his words, thoughtfully, solemnly, her face warming as he speaks of his sister. She doesn't ask how she died. That question, that question she knows burns. They had lived a whole life, and when it is concentrated on those final moments, that is what brings the hurt to the forefront.
Illness.
Murder.
In the end they are gone.
She blossoms beneath his attention without even realizing it. Elena has always needed to be needed, and it feels right in this moment. “It’s terrible,” she says, because she cant say it gets better because he probably already knows that it doesn’t. Maybe for some people, but Elena is still waiting for that moment to come.
“Please don’t,” she repeats those same words, though with a different meaning, this holds a plea. “I hate watching the sunset alone.” She admits with a shy smile, like the sun peeking over the mountainside of a home she once called her own. She turns those blue eyes to him, looking up at him from beneath those long, dark lashes. “I’m Elena, please, sit with me a while?”
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
