“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
For hours, she has been watching the horizon for the first hint of a blood riddled sunset. Her secret heart, her bit of buried softness that still feels like it's choking on the thickness of blood, has already start to cry a tragic poem (a eulogy) to all the bits of the day she knows she'll never remember. Already those parts feel like sparks, like embers, bared and naked to the air.
Spark. Flash. Dead.
She wonders what will be left, when all the light chews itself out of her like she's another hole to be dug, torn, and shredded like a paper wish. Will there be anything at all? Or will it be darkness that she must learn the weight, flavor, and feel of?
And for a moment, for a single moment, she closes her eyes and tears them from the heavens like a bit of dirt found an open wound.
For a moment she lives in the darkness and calls it eternity, peace, and the-end-of-the-last-war.
For a moment she's a star again, opening her eyes to the black cosmos and dreaming colors and constellations to paint across that endless, hollow expanse. Her tongue is heavy with song, and war-cries, and sorrows that crash to the earth in meteor showers and wish-falls. Warset doesn't feel like a burned-up-thing, a chewed-up-thing, a torn-out-thing when she opens her eyes to the placid lake.
Instead she feels like a girl, a newborn star learning the language of galaxy dust, when she traces the glittering curves of this fragile form racing towards death. The water ripples like rings around a planet when she steps into it. Seven rings. She counts.
She's become nothing more than a watery reflection with seven rings and eyes of moonlight trapped and dulling by the day. She's becoming--
Mortal.
And perhaps she's looking for anything, anything at all, to distract her from the horror of it all (and of the blood blooming like spring petals on the horizon). Perhaps she's only looking for someone's song to sing instead of her own when she turns to the other mare by the water.
Or perhaps she is only as lonely as a siren when she whispers a greeting of feathers from ankle deep in the water. Her reflection becomes monstrous with the span of her wings-- a delicate, monstrous thing. “It is a warm day for the autumn.” She smiles, blinks slow as a leopard, and wonders if the woman likes a shattered reflection or a glass-smooth one.
@Dalmatia
Spark. Flash. Dead.
She wonders what will be left, when all the light chews itself out of her like she's another hole to be dug, torn, and shredded like a paper wish. Will there be anything at all? Or will it be darkness that she must learn the weight, flavor, and feel of?
And for a moment, for a single moment, she closes her eyes and tears them from the heavens like a bit of dirt found an open wound.
For a moment she lives in the darkness and calls it eternity, peace, and the-end-of-the-last-war.
For a moment she's a star again, opening her eyes to the black cosmos and dreaming colors and constellations to paint across that endless, hollow expanse. Her tongue is heavy with song, and war-cries, and sorrows that crash to the earth in meteor showers and wish-falls. Warset doesn't feel like a burned-up-thing, a chewed-up-thing, a torn-out-thing when she opens her eyes to the placid lake.
Instead she feels like a girl, a newborn star learning the language of galaxy dust, when she traces the glittering curves of this fragile form racing towards death. The water ripples like rings around a planet when she steps into it. Seven rings. She counts.
She's become nothing more than a watery reflection with seven rings and eyes of moonlight trapped and dulling by the day. She's becoming--
Mortal.
And perhaps she's looking for anything, anything at all, to distract her from the horror of it all (and of the blood blooming like spring petals on the horizon). Perhaps she's only looking for someone's song to sing instead of her own when she turns to the other mare by the water.
Or perhaps she is only as lonely as a siren when she whispers a greeting of feathers from ankle deep in the water. Her reflection becomes monstrous with the span of her wings-- a delicate, monstrous thing. “It is a warm day for the autumn.” She smiles, blinks slow as a leopard, and wonders if the woman likes a shattered reflection or a glass-smooth one.
@
