and bury it before it buries me
Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war, the saying goes.
But Elena knows those dogs do not just destroy the enemy, they will vanquish everything in their path.
It had been time to grow up, little girl.
Elena had no longer been allowed to parade through life with those rose colored blinders on, unaware of anything but her own destruction. Elena had seen war, she had seen death, injury, families torn apart. She had seen her own mother whither away to disease. It had been time to grow up. And the little girl, who had hardly been alive long enough to understand what it meant to be a child, never realized what she would all leave behind.
She knows the metallic tang of blood the instant it hits the air, recoils from it with a faint clench of muscle along the delicate lines of her jaw. It is the kind of scent that snakes into her mouth, settles like copper on the back of her tongue until she is gagging on it, inching back with wary blue eyes. What was she still doing here? She looks like a bird, a golden chickadee, perched as if ready to fly. There is something about her that is wound too tightly, the world too loud and bright and fast.
Elena knows what she is doing here, it is duty, it is her duty. They fight, they tear each other apart, draw blood, paint bruises, sculpt sprains and breaks. And Elena, patches, she fixes, she soothes, she heals.
These are not the first she had found broken, bloodied, pained. His eyes had stared into hers. “Do I look that hurt to you?” His laughter had been haunting. “You don't let people in, and it will be your downfall, if it hasn't been already.” She had told him. Not realizing, how letting too many in would be her own.
Perhaps the reason that she is drawn to broken things is because she herself often feels so broken. It doesn’t make sense, because at first glance she is healthy, happy, altogether average. Those blue eyes are bright and beautiful, but look closer and they cloud with bruises, riddled with ghosts.
But she smiles anyway as her empathy wracks her body with emotions. (She wants to cry with defeat and scream with anger and laugh with victory all at the same time.) “Where does it hurt?” She asks again and again, so when she spots the next, as he moves up in line, she turns to gather supplies, speaking without thinking. “Where does it hurt?”
Where does it hurt?
But Elena knows those dogs do not just destroy the enemy, they will vanquish everything in their path.
It had been time to grow up, little girl.
Elena had no longer been allowed to parade through life with those rose colored blinders on, unaware of anything but her own destruction. Elena had seen war, she had seen death, injury, families torn apart. She had seen her own mother whither away to disease. It had been time to grow up. And the little girl, who had hardly been alive long enough to understand what it meant to be a child, never realized what she would all leave behind.
She knows the metallic tang of blood the instant it hits the air, recoils from it with a faint clench of muscle along the delicate lines of her jaw. It is the kind of scent that snakes into her mouth, settles like copper on the back of her tongue until she is gagging on it, inching back with wary blue eyes. What was she still doing here? She looks like a bird, a golden chickadee, perched as if ready to fly. There is something about her that is wound too tightly, the world too loud and bright and fast.
Elena knows what she is doing here, it is duty, it is her duty. They fight, they tear each other apart, draw blood, paint bruises, sculpt sprains and breaks. And Elena, patches, she fixes, she soothes, she heals.
These are not the first she had found broken, bloodied, pained. His eyes had stared into hers. “Do I look that hurt to you?” His laughter had been haunting. “You don't let people in, and it will be your downfall, if it hasn't been already.” She had told him. Not realizing, how letting too many in would be her own.
Perhaps the reason that she is drawn to broken things is because she herself often feels so broken. It doesn’t make sense, because at first glance she is healthy, happy, altogether average. Those blue eyes are bright and beautiful, but look closer and they cloud with bruises, riddled with ghosts.
But she smiles anyway as her empathy wracks her body with emotions. (She wants to cry with defeat and scream with anger and laugh with victory all at the same time.) “Where does it hurt?” She asks again and again, so when she spots the next, as he moves up in line, she turns to gather supplies, speaking without thinking. “Where does it hurt?”
Where does it hurt?
so take away this apathy
bury it before it buries me
@Jask
![[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
