i will not be another flower
They are raw and they are aching and they are beautiful. Broken things always are. Like shattered glass or diamond rings. Facets will always reflect the light and cast a rainbow. Facets will always be dusted in shadow. Facets will always cut you if you press too hard. They are shattered windows and Moira only wants to lift the blinds higher and higher, tearing them from the frame until Michael is the only sun that she knows, but she is afraid.
There is a beast and it raises its head in her belly.
It strings a noose about her heart, pressing a handle into her palm, letting her push or pull. No matter which she chooses, Moira knows she loses.
His eyes are the blue of her sorrow as they alight on her skin. Even as he does not, they reach for her and hold her close. More closely than they have in such a long time. She wants to sigh into them, to lose herself in the galaxy of their sadness and longing. At least there she would know that he cannot leave her lest he wish himself blind.
That, too, is a possibility though. It leers toothily at her, glinting as a razor pressed as butterfly wings to her flesh. Blankets cocoon her, convincing her that there is a modicum of safety left even though she’s invited the wolf into her room. Beneath them, she sweats. It is not from heat or nearness to him or the furious pounding of her own blood. No. No.
Her sweat tastes of fear born from a future that could be, from everything she has yet to lose.
Moira Tonnerre, unlike her proud house, is so used to losing and losing. She has learned to sacrifice her own happiness on a pyre of bones and watch others become nothing but stardust racing toward another’s galaxy. Selfishly, she wants Michael to stay in her own. Isn’t that why he is here now, choosing to lie beside her even though she could smother him if he dared fall asleep and none would be the wiser?
She bites her lip, watching his move as he talks. Can she truly trust that? Should she?
Part of her is a kitten mewling, keening, crying. Part of her is running.
What part does she listen to?
“You are,” she breathes between kisses. “You are my sun and you are so tired. We both are. I see it.” The phoenix runs her phantom hands along the wings of his shoulder blades, massages along his spine until he is supple and pliant in her grasp. “Rest. Rest and be there when I wake up. I pray you are not just a dream.”
And she doesn’t dare reach out to bite him again. Hardly allowing herself time to think through those words, Moira decidedly closes her eyes and wills herself into stillness, into a murky darkness that does not easily take her under.
picked for my beauty and left to die
