I wish I could take the hands of time and turn them in reverse
I'd take back every long goodbye with venom in my words
It is a good thing is not built for sympathy, for compassion. She is not certain what she would do if she was faced with anything but the stoic lines of his face—unyielding and unwavering as she batters against him, as the oceans of her pain unlock from behind her rib and slam against the cliffs of his uncaring.
It is easier to untangle herself from the murky waters that she has slipped into so easily when he is just standing there watching her. It is easier to try and pick through the threads that bind around her when he is not looking at her with pity in his eyes. He just watches and she straightens her shoulders.
She’s not weak, she reminds herself, even as her heart thunders in her chest.
When he says that it is not surprising, her lips quirk—just the barest hint of movement that reveal the hint of her fang before they settle again, like a curtain fluttering closed. It is a breath and then he is reacting to her own question. Just a breath before his nostrils are flaring and she feels something like victory to know that there is a pulse beneath his cold exterior—to know that she had managed to provoke this reaction.
“I don’t think my parents were wrong either,” she confesses, and she wonders why it’s so easy to talk to him when he gives her no inclination that he wants to hear it. He’s not exactly drawing out information or prodding her with questions or even reacting when she spits it all up like venom in her belly. He’s not doing anything but just existing and she’s splitting her heart open and letting him see all of the ugly.
Another hard breath. “My dad at least.”
Another bitter laugh. “My mom thought I was maybe worth something.”
That feels more outlandish now than imagining that her hunger would one day consume the world.
the only way to being found is getting lost at first
but all I find are more bridges to burn
