There's a song in your lung and a dream in your eye. (Perse)

[perse]

i wanted pomegranates— i wanted darkness— i wanted him. Her ideal of beauty is a warped one, one made in His caverns. Hers is one crafted across ugly things, across pain and torment, brutality of the worst sort – in these atrocities, wires crossed, and she thinks, it’s beautiful. So of course she should find this lovely, the way the mare’s pain is worn across her skin, accessible to anyone through a mere glance. Of course she finds something exquisite about the cracked skin of her, the unspoken poetry of it: I died, and I lived to tell the tale. She wishes it were her, that such stories were written on her skin. She finds its smoothness ugly, for it tells nothing of her, of what she knew so well in His lair. And Joscelin notices, and asks: why is she unmarked, why is she not so broken? “I have one mark,” she says, and shifts her silver swath of mane, shows where His mark is burned on her crest, the only mark that survived in her iterations. “He likes His things unbroken,” she says, unaware of what lies implicit in her words: therefore, you are not His, “so he always fixed me, after.” p e r s e ------------------------------cordis x spyndle