“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
Stars, oh stars, do now know how to be brought to heel by things with jagged teeth and dripping spit. They do not know how to lower their heads, their white-fire, and look at the blackness instead of the beasts. And she does not know how to do it now, not even with these mortal bones and these mortal eyes begging to her bow like a flower before the acrid dragon-wind.
Instead she is a fool of a girl, all fragile flesh holding in the wrath of a constellation and a wildcat.
Instead she bares her teeth, and her wings, at the dragon like she's a thing that knows each secret living in his grotesqueness. Deep in her cosmic heart she knows all the black things in his. She knows the color of a dragon's blood, she knows what flowers bloom in the places where it has watered the dirt. Her snarl echoes no less fiercely than his despite the delicateness of her form.
And she's still looking at the dragon (thinking the real danger is in all the places its not) when the stallion steps closer. The blood-stones in her stomach roil and rise up to choke her. “I did not know.” She chokes and wonders if it makes it better or worse that the weight in her stomach has a name now.
One was them, in the end, was going to dies in that alley. And she's glad, viciously glad, that she was not the corpse in the dirt when the dawn came.
But it does not settle the ache, or soothe the sorrow, or cool the fires of her star-soul. It just sits there, another stone to bury her deeper into this mortal world of dirt.
“Have you come to take your vengeance then?” She lifts her head, and her wings rise like storm clouds at her side, because even now she does not know how to bow before men and monsters. Beneath her skin her heart flutters like a sparrow caught in a cage, as hungry for the hand that feeds as it is for freedom. Below the sorrow in her gaze, that dark swirl of quicksilver, an ember start to catch like a newborn comet in the darkness.
And she does not say that she's sorry, not with a dragon perched on the cliffs above them.
She cannot.
@Vercingtorix
Instead she is a fool of a girl, all fragile flesh holding in the wrath of a constellation and a wildcat.
Instead she bares her teeth, and her wings, at the dragon like she's a thing that knows each secret living in his grotesqueness. Deep in her cosmic heart she knows all the black things in his. She knows the color of a dragon's blood, she knows what flowers bloom in the places where it has watered the dirt. Her snarl echoes no less fiercely than his despite the delicateness of her form.
And she's still looking at the dragon (thinking the real danger is in all the places its not) when the stallion steps closer. The blood-stones in her stomach roil and rise up to choke her. “I did not know.” She chokes and wonders if it makes it better or worse that the weight in her stomach has a name now.
One was them, in the end, was going to dies in that alley. And she's glad, viciously glad, that she was not the corpse in the dirt when the dawn came.
But it does not settle the ache, or soothe the sorrow, or cool the fires of her star-soul. It just sits there, another stone to bury her deeper into this mortal world of dirt.
“Have you come to take your vengeance then?” She lifts her head, and her wings rise like storm clouds at her side, because even now she does not know how to bow before men and monsters. Beneath her skin her heart flutters like a sparrow caught in a cage, as hungry for the hand that feeds as it is for freedom. Below the sorrow in her gaze, that dark swirl of quicksilver, an ember start to catch like a newborn comet in the darkness.
And she does not say that she's sorry, not with a dragon perched on the cliffs above them.
She cannot.
@
