“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
Is this what it means to be mortal?
To look at bits of magic leaking from the skin like tears, like it's happy to be anywhere but in a cage of flesh and bone.
And she wonders, as she watches him like a chaotic mess of girl, and star, and predator, if he feels chewed out, torn-out, shed-out, or lost when the shadows leave him hurriedly. Does it feel like the a tear in satin to known all the things these fragile forms of theirs are not strong enough to hold? Does it feel like sorrow or understand?
How can she expect him, as he presses their masks together like cold-stone lips, to learn how to hold her?
Do they know, does he know, that every star that is told to carry a wish dies? Do they know that it chokes them all like oil and coagulated blood? It feels like that now, as he presses into her skin like a wish she did not known to wish for, that she did not know how to pray the shape of with the fragile dark lips of this form. It feels like choking on sorrow, on tears, on a hundred wishes she's never made but been made to watch her sisters carry. And she is not brave enough, not hateful enough, to lift her eyes up to see the truth in the true night waiting beyond the twilight.
“I do not know how to think of darkness that way.” Another willow tree whisper in a garden of whippoorwills. “Darkness has only ever been a thing to shine against as we twisted lines of pale light through it to form the constellations between us.” She tries to smile, she tries to feel like a bit of light stitched back into the whole she had been torn out of.Warset tries to shape him into lines of thread and drops of mortar.
And she knows he cannot hold her but it does not stop the flutter of her heart as he lifts his cloak to her face like something as mortal as this might carry the sorrow of a star. “Mortals,” she says like a prayer written in the blood of a sinner, “are foolish things.” Her smile has too many teeth in it as she leans away from him and the gentle cloak.
Shadows are better than silk, darkness more soothing than softness.
Stars are made to burn and drown the world in the light of their sorrows, and joys, and cosmic wrath. She sang to a war-field of dragons once, and watched all the gods battle and raise words in the drops of their ichor. She watched his world, this little world, bloom like a rose beneath the dark currents of her music.
“Does wiping away a tear with something soft make it feel any less like glass? Does it help?” This time when she looks at him, the shine of her gaze is no less accusing than the glimmer of the glass at their hooves.
And she does not think to wonder which of them cuts deeper.
@Caine
To look at bits of magic leaking from the skin like tears, like it's happy to be anywhere but in a cage of flesh and bone.
And she wonders, as she watches him like a chaotic mess of girl, and star, and predator, if he feels chewed out, torn-out, shed-out, or lost when the shadows leave him hurriedly. Does it feel like the a tear in satin to known all the things these fragile forms of theirs are not strong enough to hold? Does it feel like sorrow or understand?
How can she expect him, as he presses their masks together like cold-stone lips, to learn how to hold her?
Do they know, does he know, that every star that is told to carry a wish dies? Do they know that it chokes them all like oil and coagulated blood? It feels like that now, as he presses into her skin like a wish she did not known to wish for, that she did not know how to pray the shape of with the fragile dark lips of this form. It feels like choking on sorrow, on tears, on a hundred wishes she's never made but been made to watch her sisters carry. And she is not brave enough, not hateful enough, to lift her eyes up to see the truth in the true night waiting beyond the twilight.
“I do not know how to think of darkness that way.” Another willow tree whisper in a garden of whippoorwills. “Darkness has only ever been a thing to shine against as we twisted lines of pale light through it to form the constellations between us.” She tries to smile, she tries to feel like a bit of light stitched back into the whole she had been torn out of.Warset tries to shape him into lines of thread and drops of mortar.
And she knows he cannot hold her but it does not stop the flutter of her heart as he lifts his cloak to her face like something as mortal as this might carry the sorrow of a star. “Mortals,” she says like a prayer written in the blood of a sinner, “are foolish things.” Her smile has too many teeth in it as she leans away from him and the gentle cloak.
Shadows are better than silk, darkness more soothing than softness.
Stars are made to burn and drown the world in the light of their sorrows, and joys, and cosmic wrath. She sang to a war-field of dragons once, and watched all the gods battle and raise words in the drops of their ichor. She watched his world, this little world, bloom like a rose beneath the dark currents of her music.
“Does wiping away a tear with something soft make it feel any less like glass? Does it help?” This time when she looks at him, the shine of her gaze is no less accusing than the glimmer of the glass at their hooves.
And she does not think to wonder which of them cuts deeper.
@Caine
