03-08-2016, 04:17 PM
my friend makes rings, she swirls and sings
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things
she’s a mystic in the sense that she’s still mystified by things
(where should I be? … where do I go?)
They’ve not been buried yet. They are bathed in smoky darkness. In cool, wooded air and brushed with sand. (Her skeleton calls. It is still covered by the fine veil of purplish horsehair, one golden eye stares down to the earth, the other, into bruised flesh. Maybe heat still clings to it. Organic, self-made heat – depending on how time flows here.
It is still, like a doll, without breath and having spent its final, jerking spinal reflexes.
Maybe father has found it by now.)
“Wait…”
(A dead thing.)
Irisa steps away from Heartworm, and Nyxia wonders on the touch of those wings – on her back, her chest, her face. On the colourful sheen that made her a keepsake, more fit for this place. She smiles, trembling, as Irisa’s curiosity meets Nyxia’s waste – this could have been much sweeter. She blinks another tear, and this one is less lovely, indeed.
They were made, together, in one dark coition.
“Yes.” She replies, their studies leading to the only conclusion there ever could be. Don’t you see? she might ask Heartworm. Pleed. But young things can often feel the inflexibility in others. And Irisa yields, and they move like a tide. Nyxia breathes in, “cool.”
She was never meant to be here. This paradise was lost to her years ago, but she had never missed it. Ignorance can be bliss, and their bliss had been consumed like a mirror – only Irisa’s animal friends had been much more fantastical, and Nyxia’s had ended in brutality.
Such is war.
Heartworm speaks, and the lavender girl flinches. Her head hurts mightily.
Her gaze shoots to the woman, narrowing. “I don’t know how to get back,” she whispers, her jaw tight. And for the first time in her life, there is some rancor in her voice. It tastes bitter. (Anger, the bedfellow of fear – and there is fear in abundance.) “I was looking for father and then I got. Lost!” She shrieks the last word so inadvertently that she steps back from Irisa and turns her head away from them, closing her eyes.
(He had been shameless. Uncovered. Naked. He had come to her in the night and had spoiled her. Spilled her? He had wanted her to feel lonely, and now…) She turns back, slightly sheepish, the left side of her face swollen and discoloured. Bloodied. Crusty. Her left eye cannot be seen now, it is damaged and hidden under gross mounds of engorged skin and skewed brow- and cheekbones.
(She was never meant to be here.) “W-what did you mean when you said, you ‘don’t get a lot of visitors’? That makes no sense… And it sounds boring. You should really visit me in the Meadow or the Desert, sometime,” she chirps lightly, trying to assuage any unrest from her outburst.
and I pray to blades of grass to find forgiveness in the weeds.
went there, hopefully this is all fine.