07-06-2019, 10:01 PM
She is foolish to even dare to hope that they could have been anything; even just friends. She was not made for friends, and by the way he fed so fiercely off her own anger, maybe he was not either. And maybe that is why they could have worked. Maybe they could have found comfort in their similar sharpness and hard angles, maybe there could have been an understanding between them that things would not always be soft and light, and in knowing that, they didn’t have to try to be anything other than what they are.
It was wishful thinking, for a girl that hadn’t allowed herself to wish or hope for anything in years, and she is reminded again why hope was for fools.
“You’re not a coward,” she says, all the while still resisting the urge to touch him. She can see the pain on his face now, she can see that all of his anger is born from hurt and self-loathing, just like hers. She can see the pain that she harbors in her chest so clearly in his eyes, can hear it in his voice, and the empathy that she feels is so strong it almost breaks her. But she can’t touch him. “The last thing that comes to my mind when I look at you, is that you’re a coward.” As if he would believe anything that she had to say; as if he would trust the opinion of the girl that had been fighting with him moment’s before.
She drops back a little more, watching as his wings change again. Everything about him was a mystery, and even though she wanted so desperately to uncover it all, she realizes it will never happen. Some girls are not meant to get the boy; not girls like her, not girls that are made of fire and anger and bitterness. He says that he is not afraid of being burned, and it makes her eyes flicker like flames and latch onto his, and makes her breath catch in her throat when she whispers, “You should be.”
It was wishful thinking, for a girl that hadn’t allowed herself to wish or hope for anything in years, and she is reminded again why hope was for fools.
“You’re not a coward,” she says, all the while still resisting the urge to touch him. She can see the pain on his face now, she can see that all of his anger is born from hurt and self-loathing, just like hers. She can see the pain that she harbors in her chest so clearly in his eyes, can hear it in his voice, and the empathy that she feels is so strong it almost breaks her. But she can’t touch him. “The last thing that comes to my mind when I look at you, is that you’re a coward.” As if he would believe anything that she had to say; as if he would trust the opinion of the girl that had been fighting with him moment’s before.
She drops back a little more, watching as his wings change again. Everything about him was a mystery, and even though she wanted so desperately to uncover it all, she realizes it will never happen. Some girls are not meant to get the boy; not girls like her, not girls that are made of fire and anger and bitterness. He says that he is not afraid of being burned, and it makes her eyes flicker like flames and latch onto his, and makes her breath catch in her throat when she whispers, “You should be.”
B R I N L Y
burn until our lives become the embers
burn until our lives become the embers