this is the story of a girl,
who cried a river and drowned the whole world
who cried a river and drowned the whole world
It takes a long while of staring, of thinking, of mulling over what this little thing is and what they should do next before Moira realizes she's been spoken to. The voice that greets her is soft as roses falling against her skin, silken and smooth and sweet. Sweet like summer wine that lulls her into a sense of love and calm and longing. Too sweet, too soft. Moira's nose wrinkles for a moment, her eyes narrowing further before her head comes back up, her dark fringe moved faintly by the wind to show those flashing golden eyes again.
In the moonlight, she is beautiful in her muted coloration. A fire lined in silver. A collapsing star left to explode for eternity.
But she is not so lovely as the woman in silver and gold, dressed so plainly and beautifully, dancing forward with kindness. Moira is left to wonder if she ever looked so innocent as a girl, so sweet as Elena does now. Of course, she would help those who needed helped as only a doctor could, but her heart does not bleed so freely for everyone she meets. The kisses she presses into secret alcoves of skin, into the hollows of collarbones and creases of arms and curves of auricles are so hard-earned and so few between.
Perhaps to a few she was so sweet and soft, like a lamb new in the Spring just learning of the world. But the Estate made her hard, the Tonnerres grew her into a frigid sort of formal, a remote island never truly immersing herself into the continent of people.
"I do not know what I am," the phoenix replies at last. Quiet as a dying man, the words are barely more than a whisper. They are not harsh nor uncertain, but full of conviction and a simple truth. So many metamorphoses have made her something entirely different than what she was, and the phoenix is still learning how to be a predator without devouring everything she sees.
After a moment, she huffs out a breath. Ears come forward, released from charcoal hair that hide them and their displeasure. Forward she walks, forward into the arms of an angel that she does not wish to know. "I know you are not of my home," it is another truth, another statement given dryly. There is no question, no room for questions. "You smell like somewhere else entirely, somewhere I once longed to be." Perhaps Elena is a ghost conjured up for the phoenix to meet once, to cry upon, and then never see again.
She feels so heavy, stone upon stone lain over her heart, nails as a bed whenever she rests. There is no release from this pressure, and strangers never make good secret keepers. But she does not want to ask questions and she does not know what she wishes, not now that the eyes in the trees have quieted and all that is left is red and gold and silver. The mountains are lonely, but it is far lonelier in the silence of her soul. For now, she will not bark and bite and burn all that she sees. For now, the phoenix waits to see what will come.
"Speech"
In the moonlight, she is beautiful in her muted coloration. A fire lined in silver. A collapsing star left to explode for eternity.
But she is not so lovely as the woman in silver and gold, dressed so plainly and beautifully, dancing forward with kindness. Moira is left to wonder if she ever looked so innocent as a girl, so sweet as Elena does now. Of course, she would help those who needed helped as only a doctor could, but her heart does not bleed so freely for everyone she meets. The kisses she presses into secret alcoves of skin, into the hollows of collarbones and creases of arms and curves of auricles are so hard-earned and so few between.
Perhaps to a few she was so sweet and soft, like a lamb new in the Spring just learning of the world. But the Estate made her hard, the Tonnerres grew her into a frigid sort of formal, a remote island never truly immersing herself into the continent of people.
"I do not know what I am," the phoenix replies at last. Quiet as a dying man, the words are barely more than a whisper. They are not harsh nor uncertain, but full of conviction and a simple truth. So many metamorphoses have made her something entirely different than what she was, and the phoenix is still learning how to be a predator without devouring everything she sees.
After a moment, she huffs out a breath. Ears come forward, released from charcoal hair that hide them and their displeasure. Forward she walks, forward into the arms of an angel that she does not wish to know. "I know you are not of my home," it is another truth, another statement given dryly. There is no question, no room for questions. "You smell like somewhere else entirely, somewhere I once longed to be." Perhaps Elena is a ghost conjured up for the phoenix to meet once, to cry upon, and then never see again.
She feels so heavy, stone upon stone lain over her heart, nails as a bed whenever she rests. There is no release from this pressure, and strangers never make good secret keepers. But she does not want to ask questions and she does not know what she wishes, not now that the eyes in the trees have quieted and all that is left is red and gold and silver. The mountains are lonely, but it is far lonelier in the silence of her soul. For now, she will not bark and bite and burn all that she sees. For now, the phoenix waits to see what will come.
"Speech"
