it's just a little white lie, adna

[adna]

I will commit my soul to your door tonight, and I'll last 'til the gas fumes float on higher

She grows thin in the weeks that past.

Like her mother, her edges become sharper when she finds herself distressed. It does not complete dull the edges of her beauty, but it does make her face more fierce. It pulls the skin tighter so that the planes of her cheek are sharp and her sage green serpentine eyes glitter all the more as she moves in the dark.

She thinks of him constantly. More than she should.

She dreams of the quiet moments in their story together. The moments when one or both did not explode, when they did not hunt out the weakest spots and push the blade into them. The moments when he was more vulnerable, and she was more honest, and they were able to find something like stability.

She dreams so much that she almost does not believe it is him when he finally approaches.

She grows still, her eyes hesitant as they finally sweep up and then hungrily study his face. Trying to memorize every detail of him and commit it to memory, trying to force herself to remember it all and trying to ignore the ache that spreads in her with the want to reach out and touch him—just for a moment.

What he says though catches her off guard and she inhales sharply.

“I made my decision a long time ago,” she manages and is surprised to find that her throaty voice has more rasp than usual—the disuse clear in the rust that builds around her tongue. How could she possibly explain to him the many ways that she never made a decision? How she never even had a choice?

How could she explain to him that she was lost before she began?

She can’t and she doesn’t try.

She just rolls her shoulders, suddenly hating where this conversation may lead.

in a dying love I'm nothing but a stone cold liar but, oh, I got an iron in that fire

Adna