[mature] things we never thought we could be, adna

[adna]

and if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones
‘cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs

She wishes that he would have run or risen up to her throat and leave them twisted like a gnarled tree. She wishes she could lose herself in the chase or the fight or in the guilt of watching him flee before her. Instead he just looks away and then looks back, rolling his shoulder and almost dismissing her.

It makes something ugly rise in her.

Something that causes her to taste poison on her tongue.

Something that makes her nearly bite down until she severs it.

“Somewhere else,” she snaps, even though it’s nonsensical. She doesn’t even know him and she certainly doesn’t have any right to be saying that this stranger should be gone. She ignores the dark shadows that pass over his eyes and wishes that she hadn’t said anything; wishes that she’d just kept running.

Her scaled flesh shivers, twinging beneath the starlight, and she just stands sill underneath his question. There are a million answers that rise in her throat—some truthful and others complete fabrications—but she finds that she can’t give any of them a voice. They just writhe and then die. They just fade away.

Finally, she wrinkles her nose and then just throws out a quick answer.

“I don’t know where I belong.”

It’s the truth and it burns more than the toxins that seep from her fangs and she finds that she can’t meet his gaze. Her sage green eyes avert to the ground and she stares at it, frowning into the darkness.

adna

we're setting fire to our insides for fun
collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home