12-28-2019, 12:11 AM
risk
He likes the way she laughs, he decides, but nothing on his face reveals the fondness for it. If he gets attached then fate will rise up to rip her away, so he has to keep a little bit of that hate for her. He had loved the others wholly, with every bit of himself he had to give, and it had left him destitute for it. So perhaps the embers of his anger could serve as an anchor so his beautiful enemy could stay a little longer.
Still, he feels a bit of guilt when she looks hurt by his question. But she is quick to hide that pain away and resume her stoic expression once more. They are each terrible at hiding all their scars inside. He pretends not to notice the way her smile bruised at the suggestion but the corner of his lips twitch downward at her answer all the same. Is he likewise difficult to love? Had he been too loud, too wild for his family? Had he brought home too many dead things for their liking? Risk swallows hard as he tries to figure out why they left without him.
“I would like to think that I am lovable but.. here I am,” he says, feigning sudden interest in the ground between them. “If I only knew what made me so hard to care for, I would..”
But what could he do? What was left of him to carve out after dying had taken so much of his joy? Would he really hollow himself out just so someone else could fit all their love inside of him? He exhales sharply and drops the thought all together. Risk is a barren field where no one wants to live. His heart is the same color as the hardest time of night, the witching hour where everything sleeps but pain.
“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so loud or angry. I wish I knew how to be soft and kind,” he confesses while still avoiding the silver of her eyes. But he was born bitter, furious with a world that would not ever let him know peace.
Still, he feels a bit of guilt when she looks hurt by his question. But she is quick to hide that pain away and resume her stoic expression once more. They are each terrible at hiding all their scars inside. He pretends not to notice the way her smile bruised at the suggestion but the corner of his lips twitch downward at her answer all the same. Is he likewise difficult to love? Had he been too loud, too wild for his family? Had he brought home too many dead things for their liking? Risk swallows hard as he tries to figure out why they left without him.
“I would like to think that I am lovable but.. here I am,” he says, feigning sudden interest in the ground between them. “If I only knew what made me so hard to care for, I would..”
But what could he do? What was left of him to carve out after dying had taken so much of his joy? Would he really hollow himself out just so someone else could fit all their love inside of him? He exhales sharply and drops the thought all together. Risk is a barren field where no one wants to live. His heart is the same color as the hardest time of night, the witching hour where everything sleeps but pain.
“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so loud or angry. I wish I knew how to be soft and kind,” he confesses while still avoiding the silver of her eyes. But he was born bitter, furious with a world that would not ever let him know peace.