and bury it before it buries me
She looks like her mother—a beautiful gold, with blue blue eyes. Light that can glint off her curves and there is the cut of her cheekbones. Elena’s beauty would never launch a thousand ships, but she may haunt one or two with memories. She has always been drawn to beauty, holding it’s fickle qualities so close to her breast. There is beauty in so very many things though, not just the curve of one’s jaw or the brightness of their eye. No, there is beauty in the untouchable too, in the unknowable. In the things one can nearly feel even though they evade the other senses. This too draws her, in a visceral way. It is why she collects the flowers that have not yet bloomed, puts them on her windowsill and waits for them. They may never bloom, but there was something beautiful to be found in the waiting.
Someone once said that good and evil were like wolves fighting in your belly: the winner dependent on who you fed. Well, here in the dying light, in the graceful skip of the music, Elena is the wolf that is being fed.
There is an edge to him, something impossible to define but with a subtly persistent presence nonetheless. It’s that which intrigues her, the possibility of something hidden just beneath the surface. It comes again, then, stinging across her skin, and this time anger flushes hot and red beneath her skin, her ears buried in the tangles of her mane “You are unrightfully angry at me,” she says, it isn’t an accusation, though it should be. Her voice (that voice of silver bells.) is even, calm, despite the man’s tension she feels rising underneath it. “I never said ambushed,” she comments. So perhaps she feels a little surly, a little bitter, but she just keeps it at that. Her smile calm, her gaze just slightly calculated. She smirks and tilts her head at him, offering only sweetness in the curves of her face.
She feels his emotions like thorns against her skin. Tries to fight against it, tries to look for rose petals in his dark face. And then they are looking at the sky and she feels his anger disappear like their breath into the night. “To watch? You must be important,” she says returning her blue eyes to him sincerely. “I wish I was important like you.” She trails off, words clotted in her throat. It isn't entirely true, but the lie comes easily enough. The golden woman smiles like the gentle autumn sun. She doesn't wish for importance, she was important in the eyes of her family (and she still left them), important in the matching blue eyes of her cousin (who she also left, too many times to count.) That was enough.
The palomino laughs then, and perhaps that note of laughter is the bravest thing she has ever done, laughing when he stands there with powers that could strike her dead. “Resent it all you like,” she says. She picks up a string of light flowers and so daringly starts weaving them in his dark mane. “I will just be here.” And she peers to look at him once more, into his wild eyes. “And I will not resent you.”
Someone once said that good and evil were like wolves fighting in your belly: the winner dependent on who you fed. Well, here in the dying light, in the graceful skip of the music, Elena is the wolf that is being fed.
There is an edge to him, something impossible to define but with a subtly persistent presence nonetheless. It’s that which intrigues her, the possibility of something hidden just beneath the surface. It comes again, then, stinging across her skin, and this time anger flushes hot and red beneath her skin, her ears buried in the tangles of her mane “You are unrightfully angry at me,” she says, it isn’t an accusation, though it should be. Her voice (that voice of silver bells.) is even, calm, despite the man’s tension she feels rising underneath it. “I never said ambushed,” she comments. So perhaps she feels a little surly, a little bitter, but she just keeps it at that. Her smile calm, her gaze just slightly calculated. She smirks and tilts her head at him, offering only sweetness in the curves of her face.
She feels his emotions like thorns against her skin. Tries to fight against it, tries to look for rose petals in his dark face. And then they are looking at the sky and she feels his anger disappear like their breath into the night. “To watch? You must be important,” she says returning her blue eyes to him sincerely. “I wish I was important like you.” She trails off, words clotted in her throat. It isn't entirely true, but the lie comes easily enough. The golden woman smiles like the gentle autumn sun. She doesn't wish for importance, she was important in the eyes of her family (and she still left them), important in the matching blue eyes of her cousin (who she also left, too many times to count.) That was enough.
The palomino laughs then, and perhaps that note of laughter is the bravest thing she has ever done, laughing when he stands there with powers that could strike her dead. “Resent it all you like,” she says. She picks up a string of light flowers and so daringly starts weaving them in his dark mane. “I will just be here.” And she peers to look at him once more, into his wild eyes. “And I will not resent you.”
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
