You can't Hide from Who You Are, the Light peels back the Dark
I am drinking hungrily of the air and the sea spray and the gull song like a starved thing. I am caging my magic because it is feral, and wanting, and all-consuming. It paces through my bones, that lioness, and she cries, and yowls, and screams.
And I wonder, what if I let her free?
All the empty, sharp things inside of me are biting at the air when I see the woman in the distance turn and acknowledge me. All the dark, yawning places inside of me are aching to be filled when she begins to move toward me.
For a second there is a void of wind around me. My hair stops dancing, my ribbons stop waving. For a second, my eyes are gold instead of blue. Then the woman’s words drift to me on the salt-stained wind. I think: I will devour every good thing about you. I think: I will not leave you the way that I found you, but worse. More broken.
I think: perhaps that is what I was always meant to do.
I hope there is still some part that is better than that. I do not go, even though I should. I stay, and my eyes are blue (if not sharp, if not tossing seas). The wind is in my hair and the teeth at my neck. “I do not think I am the sort of company that you seek,” I say. But I stay, because I am still stuck between fighting what I was or what I have become.
“Speaking.”
And I wonder, what if I let her free?
All the empty, sharp things inside of me are biting at the air when I see the woman in the distance turn and acknowledge me. All the dark, yawning places inside of me are aching to be filled when she begins to move toward me.
For a second there is a void of wind around me. My hair stops dancing, my ribbons stop waving. For a second, my eyes are gold instead of blue. Then the woman’s words drift to me on the salt-stained wind. I think: I will devour every good thing about you. I think: I will not leave you the way that I found you, but worse. More broken.
I think: perhaps that is what I was always meant to do.
I hope there is still some part that is better than that. I do not go, even though I should. I stay, and my eyes are blue (if not sharp, if not tossing seas). The wind is in my hair and the teeth at my neck. “I do not think I am the sort of company that you seek,” I say. But I stay, because I am still stuck between fighting what I was or what I have become.
![[Image: 13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png]](https://file.toyhou.se/images/13716916_Rc8f5hGvZkB3cYP.png)
a war is calling
the tides are turned
the tides are turned
