she's the giggle at a funeral
unholy desires, the scent is fetid death. death unlike beauty, leaves a repulsive stench; though both are eternal. the odour makes you recoil. there is no elegance in death, only affirmations, only oblivion and earthly demise. the aroma is putrid; juicy, wretched, like old rotten things. left too long in the spoils of winterland. the rotting, unclean. capped, beneath ridges of hard, hard ice. the poetry raw, primordial. an ancient dance of life and decay and beauty come undone. the beauty within the rotting corpses, is only a whisper of a dream, from the midsummer's grave. it feels like spoiled meat - tastes like wet, dank cancerous earth - no matter how beautiful the unicorn's red fur shone in the ephemeral moonlight; as blood-red and bright as a freshly-opened wound. as ravishing as steel swords and equally terrifying. the unicorn and her beast were like gods in the darkness. euryale feels like persephone. almost helpless. almost in love with death.
euryale almost wants to turn away from the ugliness it brings. she feels nearly embarrassed by so much want. yet she does not, she will not, turn away from the red unicorn. she only holds thana's gaze like a steady storm, waiting to explode in gunfire and smoke. euryale finds beauty in everything. even destruction. even death. even decay. so the violet stone upon the unicorn's brow, catches euryale's gaze, like an eagle catches sight of something shimmery and utterly reflective. euryale wants to take the stone in her mouth and leave a kiss like a diamond on thana's temple. it makes the blood-red unicorn look even more beautiful. as thana nears, the lilac-haired banshee leans over in a graceful whisper of soft motion. enough to scrape her porcelain cheek ever so lightly against the unicorn's spiraling horn. enough to draw blood - so faint a trace - like red rose petals, dashed against december snow and pricked by a knife's kiss. it stings her flesh like serpents writhing in her heart. it hurts. but it hurts so good. "like a diamond in the dark. the stone on your forehead is beautiful. like you."
euryale whispers to thana, the same cold, deathless whisper. there is no emotion in her words, only icy affirmation, only truth wrapped in fangs and venomous silk. having always lusted after danger, the witch realizes then that she wants this warrior queen too much. yet apart of her wants to bitchslap the other, until the blood pours from out of their mouths. another part of her wants to throw thana on the bed and ravage her, alive. bite her neck. bite her lips and hips and thighs, until the night descends into a sea of red, fleshy hunger made for sex and suffering. another part of euryale, the secret dark side of euryale, wants to do all of the above. euryale feels both attraction so intense, and fear of something, unfamiliar. how can she feel this way towards a woman, when she is not even a lesbian? when she is not even attracted to the female body? why do thoughts pour like black oil in her mind. she feels like grinding the unicorn into the earth until they are nothing more than a tangle of blood, tears and sweat. nothing more than a goddess of love, wrapped in the deadly embrace of the goddess of death. where hell would be their bedroom, heaven their battlefield. a coffin of roses finally laid to rest. tarantula and black widow.
yet still, euryale remains motionless. unreadable as stone; her thoughts hidden, like the sociopath she is. euryale ignores the unicorn's raw question with a soft, gentle laugh. not out of elusiveness, but genuine truth. her voice suddenly darkens, a gauzy hush like secrets unearthed, tonight. painful secrets. tired secrets. secrets so violent and heavy and hateful, apart of euryale's heart breaks, even though her face remains perfectly ivory. "something was taken from me," she confides. she wants to say that her innocence was stolen, devoured by hungry men - brutally taken away, like wolves take lambs - but she can't. she is no longer a lamb, and she wears her scars like artform, like religion. she tells herself she let herself be devoured. "my son was taken from me. i want my son back. and i will fuck every god and devil here, until they give him back to me," and it doesn't take cleverness to make love, in order to gain what i want. euryale's sensuous body loosens in its sensual shrug; lithe shoulderblades sprung by ruinous lilacs and blues, sliding easily into a wildcat's crawl. and euryale's eyes says it all; dovely, obsidian-lashed rimmed in the blackest of black. to me, praying is like fucking. i just want it too much.
if thana is death and decay and absolute destruction, euryale wants to be the savage bonfire and wild gypsies that dance like sin and pleasure all around her. and only the craziest things are the most beautiful. like love. like religion. both lead the blind; both drive you to hunger and leave you either fulfilled, or broken or starving in utter madness. there is much euryale wants to tell her. but she refrains. maybe those are stories saved better for a rainy day. o, but if euryale could only tell her story, it would begin with something like, once upon a time in a kingdom by the sea, there lived a young girl who loved darkness and moonlight. "i feel like I've seen your face before. were you at dusk while asterion ruled?" a breeze makes it's way through her lilac tendrils, ruffling her curls. the candle euryale holds gets snuffed out. now it's pitch black, and wonderfully dark. now euryale's whisper, ever hushed, ever soft and frenzied, sounds more like silent screams of hunger echoing in the dark.
@thana
is when i'm alone with you
