“AND DEEP IN OUR SECRET HEARTS
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
WE WORRIED THAT WE WERE AN ACCIDENT,”
The dying night is running through her blood like the cosmic river and the great snakes. Every time she closes her eyes the sting of the red-sun shining at the horizon echoes in the blackness like bloody lightning. Her sinew aches and atrophies at the sight. Her curse starts to devour her from the inside out by way of tooth, and claw, and ferocious endless hunger. And if it weren't for the music rising up like war-song around her, and the crowd pressing in tightly (as if they might keep all her pieces from blowing apart), Warset would have run into the dark alleys bloated with cedar smoke and prayed for death, or anything less terrible than this mortal coil.
She tries to swallow the pain of un-becoming instead of becoming. And she tries to loose herself into the tomes of poetry writ across the bonfire smoke like scripture and legends of the black space between stars that she does not remember. Somewhere the other stars, the other diluted chewed out pieces of light, gather and pray, pray, pray for the quickening of the night.
Warset prays for the sun and constellations etched between clouds and gulls instead of stars. She prays for light, light enough to blind her and send her home.
The music ascends into something holy and blood rises feverish just below her dark cheeks. She feels flush with the sum of this place and the voices all ring in her ears like battle-drums on corpses. Her lips ache to hum, and bellow, and snarl at the way this place is rendering her apart at the edges.
And she's remembering how to be a star, and a war-singer, and a girl fat with dreams, when the ring of coins cuts through all the sound like a harp-string singing her home. She turns to him, to him, to him--
A memory dances like a butterfly in a storm on the edges of her thoughts. She cannot grasp it, or hold it, or sing it closer.
Three things, three souls, all rise in her once.
A wildcat scrapes teeth against her bones as if it might chew it's way out and fill up a hollow belly with crow bones. A girl starts to smile with hope instead of hopelessness. And a star smiles and snaps her wings like a hawk at the sight of gold fading into caught suns in the smoke.
Warset smiles (just Warset), and there are too many teeth in the look for the liquid sorrow pooling like lost diamonds in her mercury gaze. The ground hardly seems like stone and dirt as she moves across it to him. It turns into moonbeams and sugar-spun clouds just starting to rot as she floats across it with her wings pressing the mortal crowd around her back, back, back to the edges where she will not devour them (later).
And when she drags her lips down his neck, and buries them into the flower crowning his spine as something precious, she does not know why it feels both like breaking and like coming home. “I do not know you.” She whispers with flowers between her teeth and pollen on her nose.
But when she pulls away the silver shining thing living in her eyes says that she does, she does.
She does.
@Dune
She tries to swallow the pain of un-becoming instead of becoming. And she tries to loose herself into the tomes of poetry writ across the bonfire smoke like scripture and legends of the black space between stars that she does not remember. Somewhere the other stars, the other diluted chewed out pieces of light, gather and pray, pray, pray for the quickening of the night.
Warset prays for the sun and constellations etched between clouds and gulls instead of stars. She prays for light, light enough to blind her and send her home.
The music ascends into something holy and blood rises feverish just below her dark cheeks. She feels flush with the sum of this place and the voices all ring in her ears like battle-drums on corpses. Her lips ache to hum, and bellow, and snarl at the way this place is rendering her apart at the edges.
And she's remembering how to be a star, and a war-singer, and a girl fat with dreams, when the ring of coins cuts through all the sound like a harp-string singing her home. She turns to him, to him, to him--
A memory dances like a butterfly in a storm on the edges of her thoughts. She cannot grasp it, or hold it, or sing it closer.
Three things, three souls, all rise in her once.
A wildcat scrapes teeth against her bones as if it might chew it's way out and fill up a hollow belly with crow bones. A girl starts to smile with hope instead of hopelessness. And a star smiles and snaps her wings like a hawk at the sight of gold fading into caught suns in the smoke.
Warset smiles (just Warset), and there are too many teeth in the look for the liquid sorrow pooling like lost diamonds in her mercury gaze. The ground hardly seems like stone and dirt as she moves across it to him. It turns into moonbeams and sugar-spun clouds just starting to rot as she floats across it with her wings pressing the mortal crowd around her back, back, back to the edges where she will not devour them (later).
And when she drags her lips down his neck, and buries them into the flower crowning his spine as something precious, she does not know why it feels both like breaking and like coming home. “I do not know you.” She whispers with flowers between her teeth and pollen on her nose.
But when she pulls away the silver shining thing living in her eyes says that she does, she does.
She does.
@
