SUDDENLY I'M THINKING / OF ALL THE TIMES I MISSED
the chance to love something / that was not breakable.☼
With each passing day, the weather grows colder. With each passing day, the truth of her situation grows a little bit more undeniable.
Her soft, golden scarf is pulled a bit tighter around her throat to keep out the cold. She has it pulled high, to cover most of her face, though no one is out here; somehow the sight of herself is shameful. She doesn’t know how to explain the swell of her sides to anyone, least of all anyone that she knows. Any answer that she can come up with only makes her feel sick with shame, nauseated with humiliation. She did not want this. She did not want this, and it was not her fault, she did not do this-
She wouldn’t have chosen this. She knows that in a way that sticks in her throat, and she finds it troubling. Can she still love this children, although she would not have chosen them if she’d been given the choice? She doesn’t – know. She doesn’t know if she can love anything at all, at least in the way that she knows that she should be able to love, but she is worried most of all of trying to love something thrust upon her. The worry catches in her windpipe like a wishbone, and, no matter how she presses at it, no matter how she tries to cough it up – she can’t get it out.
She’s worried and sick and deeply, deeply ashamed. It has been years since she has wanted to be seen, but now, more than ever, she wishes that she could find some way to hide from everything and everyone – to disappear entirely.
The truth of the matter is that Seraphina is scared.
Her breath comes out as a soft white fog. She is only wearing the scarf and the sword; the leather armor does not fit quite right, in her present state, much as she loathes to admit it. Seraphina dreads the end of this, and the birth of her children – she knows nothing about that, but that it hurts (it cannot be worse than anything she has experienced before) -, meeting them for the first time, seeing them – but she loathes this, and she wants it to be over. She has forgotten what it means to have some sense of routine, and she has forgotten what it means to be anything but gapingly and agonizingly lonely, but she desperately wishes that-
She doesn’t want anyone to see her. She doesn’t want to be alone. Those two terrible, clashing feelings make her feel-
She doesn’t know how she feels. Sometimes she is sickeningly aware of her situation, and it makes a cold, cold panic well up in her with such a sudden ferocity that it almost brings her to tears. (But – she has found that she cannot cry anymore, no matter how much she would like to.) Sometimes she feels utterly detached, as though she is seeing this happen to someone else, as though her body is not her own (she has not felt like she possesses it all the way through in some years), as though these are not her children. She’d never thought of having them before, but she had always thought that it should be a happy occasion, something to be celebrated-
She supposes that is for lovers, not for someone like her; not for a woman blessed by a fickle god. She doesn’t know how to do this. She wants to be happy, but she thinks that she has forgotten how.
Ereshkigal is somewhere nearby. She can feel her presence, her probing voice at the back of her mind; she has a rabbit in her claws, bloody and ragged, and she can feel something of that too. The crunch of its bones between her shark-like teeth. The tear of skin. She doesn’t want to think about it. It isn’t appropriate for – this. She should be more tender, she needs to be more-
She exhales white, sharply, tiredly. She is so tired. She looks better than she has in years, because she has to, for their sake if not her own, but she is so tired, and she is sure that it is not from sleeplessness, though she cannot remember the last time that she laid down to rest without being plagued by nightmares.
She presses forward through the sea of browned, winter-dead grass, unsure of where she is going, or of why. But it is a matter of pressing forward- it is a matter of continuing to move, and to push, regardless-
@Moira || she's....having some complicated feelings. || darshana suresh, "porcelain"
Sera || Eresh
the chance to love something / that was not breakable.☼
With each passing day, the weather grows colder. With each passing day, the truth of her situation grows a little bit more undeniable.
Her soft, golden scarf is pulled a bit tighter around her throat to keep out the cold. She has it pulled high, to cover most of her face, though no one is out here; somehow the sight of herself is shameful. She doesn’t know how to explain the swell of her sides to anyone, least of all anyone that she knows. Any answer that she can come up with only makes her feel sick with shame, nauseated with humiliation. She did not want this. She did not want this, and it was not her fault, she did not do this-
She wouldn’t have chosen this. She knows that in a way that sticks in her throat, and she finds it troubling. Can she still love this children, although she would not have chosen them if she’d been given the choice? She doesn’t – know. She doesn’t know if she can love anything at all, at least in the way that she knows that she should be able to love, but she is worried most of all of trying to love something thrust upon her. The worry catches in her windpipe like a wishbone, and, no matter how she presses at it, no matter how she tries to cough it up – she can’t get it out.
She’s worried and sick and deeply, deeply ashamed. It has been years since she has wanted to be seen, but now, more than ever, she wishes that she could find some way to hide from everything and everyone – to disappear entirely.
The truth of the matter is that Seraphina is scared.
Her breath comes out as a soft white fog. She is only wearing the scarf and the sword; the leather armor does not fit quite right, in her present state, much as she loathes to admit it. Seraphina dreads the end of this, and the birth of her children – she knows nothing about that, but that it hurts (it cannot be worse than anything she has experienced before) -, meeting them for the first time, seeing them – but she loathes this, and she wants it to be over. She has forgotten what it means to have some sense of routine, and she has forgotten what it means to be anything but gapingly and agonizingly lonely, but she desperately wishes that-
She doesn’t want anyone to see her. She doesn’t want to be alone. Those two terrible, clashing feelings make her feel-
She doesn’t know how she feels. Sometimes she is sickeningly aware of her situation, and it makes a cold, cold panic well up in her with such a sudden ferocity that it almost brings her to tears. (But – she has found that she cannot cry anymore, no matter how much she would like to.) Sometimes she feels utterly detached, as though she is seeing this happen to someone else, as though her body is not her own (she has not felt like she possesses it all the way through in some years), as though these are not her children. She’d never thought of having them before, but she had always thought that it should be a happy occasion, something to be celebrated-
She supposes that is for lovers, not for someone like her; not for a woman blessed by a fickle god. She doesn’t know how to do this. She wants to be happy, but she thinks that she has forgotten how.
Ereshkigal is somewhere nearby. She can feel her presence, her probing voice at the back of her mind; she has a rabbit in her claws, bloody and ragged, and she can feel something of that too. The crunch of its bones between her shark-like teeth. The tear of skin. She doesn’t want to think about it. It isn’t appropriate for – this. She should be more tender, she needs to be more-
She exhales white, sharply, tiredly. She is so tired. She looks better than she has in years, because she has to, for their sake if not her own, but she is so tired, and she is sure that it is not from sleeplessness, though she cannot remember the last time that she laid down to rest without being plagued by nightmares.
She presses forward through the sea of browned, winter-dead grass, unsure of where she is going, or of why. But it is a matter of pressing forward- it is a matter of continuing to move, and to push, regardless-
@
Sera || Eresh
I'M IN A ROOM MADE OUT OF MIRRORSand there's no way to escape the violence of a girl against herself.☼please tag Sera! contact is encouraged, short of violence
