and bury it before it buries me
She is not the little girl who cried silently in the shadows without the arms of her parents around her. Although, her ghost likes to come and visit Elena. It has anchored itself in her reflection, so that every time she looks, she sees her sad little face staring back at her. Her eyes are wide, and those lips hinge on something that looks like a question that can never be answered. It is either why me or why them, but they both are met with silence. Elena sometimes stares in her mirror, the shadows in the backs of her eyes, and she can almost see the amber color of that little girl who couldn't remember how to laugh, how to smile.
Elena blinks.
And she is gone.
Another girl stands in her place. Elena isn't sure if she recognizes her or not. While that little girl may have been everything Elena has wanted to forget—at least she was familiar. This stranger that now rests on Elena’s skin had crept into her bones the moment she let a demon touch her skin, felt as a monster left bruises on her soft skin, and the moment she walked into the shadows with a lantern. This girl, this woman, Elena has scanned the planes of her face so much, and she thinks she still doesn't know what will happen now. It is so hard to tell when you do not know their soul, and this foreign soul has no language for which she can understand. It speaks in dances and sinful kisses. In boldness and in recklessness.
Marisol’s face careens around to meet her, and Elena, as always, greets her with a smile. She was stunning, even outside the element of the city, Marisol was a quiet force, a respectable face that brings instant admirment from the palomino. “You should save that dance move for the bonfires,” she says with a note of laughter (it is not as silver today as it so often is, but maybe a glittering gold instead.) “You would be sure to be the center of attention,” she jokes.
“Glad to hear it,” she responds as the sovereign takes the basket from her. “There was a great spot just down the way,” she says and takes the lead, a position she is so unfamiliar with. That little girl had been such a follower—following Marcelo from the bridge, following Valerio to Paraiso, following Aerwir to the Woodlands. She had never know how clear a view it was when there was no one standing in front of you.
She sets down her basket beside a tree and there grows a sense of modest confidence when she turns to Marisol once more. “Commander—Marisol,” she says, her eyes may be blue, but there is something in her voice that sparks like green, or maybe violet. “I have not been here long, but I have served Dusk faithfully, and will continue to do so. I have found it is all I wish to do lately,” she says. She turns a careful glance to the woman. Anandi had known more than she should have (although Elena cannot fault the woman and her sharp eye), she hopes Marisol does not delve into the trivial matters of her residents. “Please, there has to be more I can do,” she offers, her hands are wide, upturned, her belly pointed towards the beast of duty and servitude. “I give myself willingly to Terrastella.”
No, she is not that little girl anymore.
Elena blinks.
And she is gone.
Another girl stands in her place. Elena isn't sure if she recognizes her or not. While that little girl may have been everything Elena has wanted to forget—at least she was familiar. This stranger that now rests on Elena’s skin had crept into her bones the moment she let a demon touch her skin, felt as a monster left bruises on her soft skin, and the moment she walked into the shadows with a lantern. This girl, this woman, Elena has scanned the planes of her face so much, and she thinks she still doesn't know what will happen now. It is so hard to tell when you do not know their soul, and this foreign soul has no language for which she can understand. It speaks in dances and sinful kisses. In boldness and in recklessness.
Marisol’s face careens around to meet her, and Elena, as always, greets her with a smile. She was stunning, even outside the element of the city, Marisol was a quiet force, a respectable face that brings instant admirment from the palomino. “You should save that dance move for the bonfires,” she says with a note of laughter (it is not as silver today as it so often is, but maybe a glittering gold instead.) “You would be sure to be the center of attention,” she jokes.
“Glad to hear it,” she responds as the sovereign takes the basket from her. “There was a great spot just down the way,” she says and takes the lead, a position she is so unfamiliar with. That little girl had been such a follower—following Marcelo from the bridge, following Valerio to Paraiso, following Aerwir to the Woodlands. She had never know how clear a view it was when there was no one standing in front of you.
She sets down her basket beside a tree and there grows a sense of modest confidence when she turns to Marisol once more. “Commander—Marisol,” she says, her eyes may be blue, but there is something in her voice that sparks like green, or maybe violet. “I have not been here long, but I have served Dusk faithfully, and will continue to do so. I have found it is all I wish to do lately,” she says. She turns a careful glance to the woman. Anandi had known more than she should have (although Elena cannot fault the woman and her sharp eye), she hopes Marisol does not delve into the trivial matters of her residents. “Please, there has to be more I can do,” she offers, her hands are wide, upturned, her belly pointed towards the beast of duty and servitude. “I give myself willingly to Terrastella.”
No, she is not that little girl anymore.
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@
![[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
