08-04-2015, 10:42 PM
you taught me the courage of stars before you left
She can smell the blood welling in his wounds, the ones she had given him, and her stomach clenches like a fist. Regret is a poisonous thing and she can feel it filtering through her veins from her heart with each thump thump thump. “I don’t want your love.” She spits, and the lie tastes like corroded metal on her tongue. “I don’t need your love.” Nothing could be further from the truth though and the lie unravels her even as she spins it. There is an instinct buried like a blade in her chest, pressing dangerously close against her heart, and it begs her to hurt him, to hate him, to send him away.
But she can’t.
Could never.
“Makai.” She says, singular, solitary. Tired. All at once she looses the knife and rips it from her chest. The fight goes out of her immediately. Her wings close and fold tight against her hunched withers, the feather tips brushing the scars along her ribs. His mouth is still on her neck, his breath hot and familiar and dangerous. She pushes him away again, but there is no venom left, no animosity burning in those gleaming emerald eyes. When she looks at him again, tracing shadows and curves of a face so achingly right, so perfectly familiar, there is a new softness in her expression. Her mouth touches the side of his muzzle, the impossibly soft hollow just beyond the corner of his lip. “I don’t trust you anymore.” Her voice is soft, weary, though she’s careful not to let the confession strike him like a stone.
She pulls away again, settling back on her haunches to watch him from beneath a brow furrowed with concern. “Makai, I love you with everything I am, with everything I have. I’m yours.” She pauses and her face darkens subtly, the softness in her voice sharpening slightly. “But it means I have nothing left when you leave me. I’m hollow.”
I want to love you, but I’m afraid to. Afraid I’ll have nothing left. She doesn’t say.
The cold in the space between them draws her close again and she pushes her chest against his, her mouth on the hard slant of his shoulder. “We have a son,” she says quietly, breathing the confession into the crook of his dark, hard neck, “he looks so much like you.” She presses a kiss against his skin to hide her indecision, glad he can’t see the doubt seeping from the shadows of her face. “His name is Striar.”
But she can’t.
Could never.
“Makai.” She says, singular, solitary. Tired. All at once she looses the knife and rips it from her chest. The fight goes out of her immediately. Her wings close and fold tight against her hunched withers, the feather tips brushing the scars along her ribs. His mouth is still on her neck, his breath hot and familiar and dangerous. She pushes him away again, but there is no venom left, no animosity burning in those gleaming emerald eyes. When she looks at him again, tracing shadows and curves of a face so achingly right, so perfectly familiar, there is a new softness in her expression. Her mouth touches the side of his muzzle, the impossibly soft hollow just beyond the corner of his lip. “I don’t trust you anymore.” Her voice is soft, weary, though she’s careful not to let the confession strike him like a stone.
She pulls away again, settling back on her haunches to watch him from beneath a brow furrowed with concern. “Makai, I love you with everything I am, with everything I have. I’m yours.” She pauses and her face darkens subtly, the softness in her voice sharpening slightly. “But it means I have nothing left when you leave me. I’m hollow.”
I want to love you, but I’m afraid to. Afraid I’ll have nothing left. She doesn’t say.
The cold in the space between them draws her close again and she pushes her chest against his, her mouth on the hard slant of his shoulder. “We have a son,” she says quietly, breathing the confession into the crook of his dark, hard neck, “he looks so much like you.” She presses a kiss against his skin to hide her indecision, glad he can’t see the doubt seeping from the shadows of her face. “His name is Striar.”
how light carries on endlessly, even after death
Oksana