07-26-2020, 05:41 PM
“I know when you go
down all your darkest roads
I would have followed all the way
to the graveyard.”
down all your darkest roads
I would have followed all the way
to the graveyard.”
She has asked for all of this.
She knows this, of course, and she thinks that maybe Atrox is right – that she has mastered the role of the victim. She wears it comfortably, like a cloak that grafts into her skin until it seeps into her bones, and she simply becomes it. She no longer knows if it’s a lie she has told herself over and over until it becomes the truth, or if it is the truth that others have manipulated her into believing was a lie.
But she is standing here in the meadow at the edge of dawn, with broken sight and a broken heart, and she is haunted by ghosts of her own creation.
Because she has done this to herself, again and again.
Because she creates love for herself where it has no business being, and she doesn’t stop until it breaks her apart.
This is what she hates the most about being blind again, she thinks; there is nothing to keep their faces from infiltrating her mind. The dark is a canvas, and across it, all she sees is a storm gray face and wine-red eyes, sometimes set against a forgotten valley, sometimes suspended in stars. A flicker and he is replaced by yellow eyes against infinite rolling black, by a glint of sharp teeth and the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the crystalline lake.
There is nothing else to look at besides memories, there is nothing new to dream besides all the things that have already happened that she cannot change.
The frost of Illum’s skin was like a balm to all the wounds she insisted on reopening, and sometimes that wretched heart of hers almost felt soothed. But then there were nights like last night, where there was nothing to keep the hurt at bay, nothing that could keep the echo of Atrox’s voice from burning at the corners of her mind and tearing at the loosely stitched together pieces of her heart.
She wonders if Illum is starting to realize why she had not been able to promise him forever.
In this dim half-light she still glows, and she appears as everything soft and angelic, as she had been made to be. Locks of white curl against a slender neck, gold-trimmed wings resting at her sides, and she is beautifully ethereal until the light of her halo illuminates the stones in her sockets. They are the same as when he had placed them there, flat and gray, unremarkable.
She left behind Taiga for the night and left behind the man who seemed willing to love her in a way that no one else did.
Because she does not know what to do with love that does not burn. She does not know how to exist when she is not tearing herself down and apart and trying to rebuild herself into something new.
She stands here in the weight of this solitude, trying to decide if she wants someone to break it, or if she’d rather simply disappear again.
She knows this, of course, and she thinks that maybe Atrox is right – that she has mastered the role of the victim. She wears it comfortably, like a cloak that grafts into her skin until it seeps into her bones, and she simply becomes it. She no longer knows if it’s a lie she has told herself over and over until it becomes the truth, or if it is the truth that others have manipulated her into believing was a lie.
But she is standing here in the meadow at the edge of dawn, with broken sight and a broken heart, and she is haunted by ghosts of her own creation.
Because she has done this to herself, again and again.
Because she creates love for herself where it has no business being, and she doesn’t stop until it breaks her apart.
This is what she hates the most about being blind again, she thinks; there is nothing to keep their faces from infiltrating her mind. The dark is a canvas, and across it, all she sees is a storm gray face and wine-red eyes, sometimes set against a forgotten valley, sometimes suspended in stars. A flicker and he is replaced by yellow eyes against infinite rolling black, by a glint of sharp teeth and the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the crystalline lake.
There is nothing else to look at besides memories, there is nothing new to dream besides all the things that have already happened that she cannot change.
The frost of Illum’s skin was like a balm to all the wounds she insisted on reopening, and sometimes that wretched heart of hers almost felt soothed. But then there were nights like last night, where there was nothing to keep the hurt at bay, nothing that could keep the echo of Atrox’s voice from burning at the corners of her mind and tearing at the loosely stitched together pieces of her heart.
She wonders if Illum is starting to realize why she had not been able to promise him forever.
In this dim half-light she still glows, and she appears as everything soft and angelic, as she had been made to be. Locks of white curl against a slender neck, gold-trimmed wings resting at her sides, and she is beautifully ethereal until the light of her halo illuminates the stones in her sockets. They are the same as when he had placed them there, flat and gray, unremarkable.
She left behind Taiga for the night and left behind the man who seemed willing to love her in a way that no one else did.
Because she does not know what to do with love that does not burn. She does not know how to exist when she is not tearing herself down and apart and trying to rebuild herself into something new.
She stands here in the weight of this solitude, trying to decide if she wants someone to break it, or if she’d rather simply disappear again.
ryatah
idk what this is, I promise if someone replies she won't just mope about her dumb life.