[P] only holy devotion can keep the devils away

[Elena]

Some girls are full of heartache and poetry

Love.

A powerful, deceitful word.
One wrapped delicately with ribbon and lace, as sweet as arsenic.

And just as destructive. 

Her heart heart pines and aches within the bitterness of winter, though she could not and would not submit to the sheer weight of emotion that weighed so heavily upon her slender bones. Too often, she would swallow the swell of emotion that lingered within her throat, tasting the acidity of bittersweet memories and knowing well that her own fierce yet bristling heart could not be loved in any capacity.

She is covered in proverbial thorns; her heart and mind both guarded with the rusted barbed wire of weariness and reluctance. She had let him close, closer than all the others, enough to feel her bindings come loose in heated moments of vulnerability, tucked beneath a dense blanket of stars in the after sunset hours. 

Still, like that flickering candle, it burned within her like a flickering ember, burning low and slow in the very pit of her stomach, sating her with the faintest sensation of warmth and yet depriving her of the deep, searing burn she ached for.

She will burn. Burn, burn, slowly burn.

And smile all the while.

She is pure light and pale fire, electric and thrumming like a wire. There is still an ache sitting in the marrow of her bones. But it pretends it is not there, as a smile strikes her delicate features. 

The palomino walks through the island, walks and walks and walks. She sees nothing, nothing but foggy crystals, as if her future were forbidden. As if she were not allowed to see it. It swirls, mysteriously, selfishly. And that is when she realizes it.

Not, not fog, not the future—but mists—the past. And maybe this realization alone was enough to be the key to some door that had been locked. 

A piece clears and Elena sees something. It is familiar, though a part of her tells her it isnt, that this world is no longer her own. A valley of emerald carpet. There is the old willow, it’s thin branches fidget slightly beneath a summer breeze. The sunlight touches down in a way that is soft, yet you know there is warmth to be felt underneath its rays. There is a tree fort, not abandoned, not overgrown with moss, but it looks new. And there is a secret meadow, a field of gold. A cavern, that was always warm even when snow swept across the land. It all pulls into a lake that shines as clear as glass you might forget it was even there. And then upwards, up along the mountain landscape, and up the cascading water and she waits, she waits, staring into this mirror, she waits for the one thing, the one sound, that always sends her home. 

And she cant hear it, she cant hear that waterfall. She strains and strains, but all she sees is running water, diving over the cliffside into the worst of silences.

those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves

instead of running from them