widows, ghosts and loves sit and sing
in the dark, arched marrow of me
in the dark, arched marrow of me
If
she is a garden her unicorn lines are filled with all the holly bushes, and the pear trees, and apples shining and bright as spilt blood, of Eden. Each of her bones is a pillar of smooth stone wall holding all that wonder in until her ribs are convex with the bloating of foliage as it unfurls in a never-ending spring. The veins, her hallways of blood and gore, are nothing more than tracks of rain running through the mossy loam carrying hope instead of sorrow. Her heart twitters like a hundred sparrows and their fledglings as it hurries after the eagle screams of her sister’s heart. And if she is a garden convex with foliage--
This is the sleek and black-scaled snake running through the boughs of the apple tree. This thrill of her heart is a roar of thunder echoing against the stone walls. This hunger is the rot creeping on the rain-soaked roots as they beg, and beg, and beg, to discover again the procession of the fiery sun. This leap of her form is the sickle curl of the moon as it rises for the very first time, pale as bone and speckled with the reflection of bloody apples, over that worm-bloated and beautiful garden.
She follows her sister, her bloody and feral twin, as another wolf head tucked at the snarl its alpha. Her smile elongates as she spits out her foal caps and bleeds around the teeth of a made unicorn as they bloom in her gums. The curls of her horn stretch in aching inches as she follows the curl of the stag’s ribs as he kneels and trembles before the god of the dark, gloaming forest.
Eden begins to weep in the echoing thunder. Its tears glitter as diamonds and dew in the lighting.
Danaë presses the tip of her horn, now a sword instead of a dagger, deep into the crease between one frail rib and the next. Her tail curls as languidly as that black-scaled snake across the stag’s hocks as she begs them to collapse with his knees. The arcing curl of her tail-blade blooms lines of blood against the sandy fur as she digs it in deep enough to feel tendons vibrate like a harpsichord against her storm.
And when Danaë presses her teeth into her own lips, hard enough to draw blood, she imagines she is biting into the tender skin of a ruby apple instead.
{ @Isolt "speaks" notes: <3
