feed the fire and burn it slow; laura pony

[sochi]

there are wolves in my head and their howling
there was a garden of evil in the palm of my hand

Once, his admission may have driven forth an apology from her lips, may have flooded her with guilt. The teachings of her mother, well-intentioned and rooted in love, still ring and echo in her ears, reminding her always about how horses will not like having her nearby when she is in her feline form; how she will frighten them. Things that morphed into her mind to mean she will not be loved as she is. That she will always be different, always other. Something that cements her defiance to such things now.

She lifts her chin, silver eyes nearly molten as she studies his face.

“You should learn to not frighten as easily,” she finally says, her voice even. She wonders at the fact that she does not feel guilt now saying into his orange eyes, does not feel the least bit sorry for startling him. Instead there is a hunger that growls low and deep in her, something that reminds her that she is meant to feast on those weak enough to startle at the mere sight of her. She is a predator, after all.

She takes another step forward, her gaze unabashed and unwavering. “What is your name?” Her voice is feminine but deep, smooth and even on the edges with a husk that almost makes it masculine. It rolls like smoke in her mouth, low as it floods between them. “What brings you here to the forest?”

Questions she pushes into him without offering any answer of her own.

now I'm broken and bleeding, I’ll never find my way

S

OCHI

stranger in this land