12-18-2018, 04:02 PM
I don't feel much anymore, except for the extremes. Pain, joy, fear, humor are my strongest potions. Not sorrow though, no, never sorrow. Or anger. Useless and unproductive emotions with no rewards to reap when their elixir wears off. It's too easy, so easy to suffer in sadness and anger and be sucked backward. Backward and downward. It's so easy, would happen everyday if I let it; like a cat I've lived a million lives with a million left to die again. I have my reasons to be sad and angry. But I am reckless and stubborn, and that blue bitch won't sink her claws into me again. I let it happen when I was younger, let her manipulate me into something I didn't want to be, something I didn't want to feel.
But I am not that broken, useless thing anymore.
No, I am mended and sharp and reconstructed, just as my body weaves itself together again now.
I am the person I want to be.
Cursed, damned, but alive--I am a regular, fucking lady Lazarus. With nothing to do but rise time and time again.
Life is so much easier when you accept it for what it is.
Beautiful, just beautiful.
But this. I feel this.
That hot, prickling, flushing, sensation that makes the dirty gold along my spine stand on end. I know it, this thing I felt before I saw black. And I know it's source. Wickedly divine, this thing, this feeling, this stirring and awakening. This fear. And if I didn't feel fear's strengths and influence and implications, then I'd surely know the blue dame again all over again.
A twisted cycle, I think, and warped. Confusing, maybe? But look whose mind you're in, darling. You knew what you'd be getting into.
Or not. Haide is rolling her eyes.
With stiff joints, I do my best to pivot towards where the pulses are thickest. But my body still hates me, and she protests loudly with creaking joints. Each step gets easier, more fluid in motion as I work to smother the space that lies between. In the shadows where he lies, the black halo is like an old friend of mine. Sharp then warm, just like the lady of Black. My head is low, still angled peculiarly from where it had last lain against its earthen pillow. But that smile of mine is telltale and I wonder if he'll remember the strange contortion of my lips from before. It had slipped, I had slipped, and I am not sorry. And I'm not sorry for carrying on into the wrap of his shadows, pressing into them as far as I am allowed to.
The force of my grin causes my dirt-stained lips to break and bleed, and I exhale a wheezing giggle when the voided black of my eyes reach for his. "Death does not want me today." Never. Death never wants me, I'm the pretty outcast. "His loss."
@[bruise]
But I am not that broken, useless thing anymore.
No, I am mended and sharp and reconstructed, just as my body weaves itself together again now.
I am the person I want to be.
Cursed, damned, but alive--I am a regular, fucking lady Lazarus. With nothing to do but rise time and time again.
Life is so much easier when you accept it for what it is.
Beautiful, just beautiful.
But this. I feel this.
That hot, prickling, flushing, sensation that makes the dirty gold along my spine stand on end. I know it, this thing I felt before I saw black. And I know it's source. Wickedly divine, this thing, this feeling, this stirring and awakening. This fear. And if I didn't feel fear's strengths and influence and implications, then I'd surely know the blue dame again all over again.
A twisted cycle, I think, and warped. Confusing, maybe? But look whose mind you're in, darling. You knew what you'd be getting into.
Or not. Haide is rolling her eyes.
With stiff joints, I do my best to pivot towards where the pulses are thickest. But my body still hates me, and she protests loudly with creaking joints. Each step gets easier, more fluid in motion as I work to smother the space that lies between. In the shadows where he lies, the black halo is like an old friend of mine. Sharp then warm, just like the lady of Black. My head is low, still angled peculiarly from where it had last lain against its earthen pillow. But that smile of mine is telltale and I wonder if he'll remember the strange contortion of my lips from before. It had slipped, I had slipped, and I am not sorry. And I'm not sorry for carrying on into the wrap of his shadows, pressing into them as far as I am allowed to.
The force of my grin causes my dirt-stained lips to break and bleed, and I exhale a wheezing giggle when the voided black of my eyes reach for his. "Death does not want me today." Never. Death never wants me, I'm the pretty outcast. "His loss."
@[bruise]