take my hand, take my everything; Offspring, Fox, any

[Offspring]

something has been taken from deep inside of me;
the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.

   He, too, dreams of winter – of the gentle caress of a frigid zephyr, tangling itself within his thick, matted mane, and of the fragile crystals of ice that linger across the stillness of his skin, numb and glacial from somewhere deep within. The ice, too, had been a part of him, with its arctic grasp seizing some unseen piece of him, entangling with his very spirit, his soul, and his physical embodiment. The ice had been solace to him; a comforting numbness that had drawn him out of his woeful reverie, and out of his self-loathing – it had breathed new life into him; it had soothed the aching wound of loss, of heartache, of a life not lived to its fullest.

  But now, where ice had once been, fire now burned, leaving him longing for days long gone, lost to the ether of his memory. The thick, unyielding humidity of an unforgiving summer is heavy on his skin, but as the warmth of a flickering ember smolders within him, he is altogether unbothered by it. Beads of sweat linger along the slope of his broad back, and there are darkened streaks of its salty brine along his sides, staining the surface of his dark skin – but he is unmoved. It no longer stirs bitterness, but rather, indifference.

 And still, the fire burns brightly – while his mind ruminates on memories that were only that: memories.

  He is drawn to the sea, though he does not know why – perhaps the sweltering heat has stirred him from his reverie, or perhaps there is something else, pulling him away from the pooling lava at the rooted curve of the mountain – but nonetheless, his heavily muscled legs carry him to it, and he is soothed by the gentle ocean breeze that touches his skin upon his descent. The deafening roar of the stirring waves quiets his wayward thoughts, and his eyes peer towards the churning waters, but only for a moment.

  He is moved, instead, towards a slim, petite figure lingering along the shore; she is young, caught between the lankiness of her youth and the developing curves of her feminine adulthood. Her skin is touched by rust, reminding him of someone from his past, someone he longed to see again. Quietly, his behemoth form sidles alongside her, stealing a glance to her wistful expression before casting his gaze out towards the seemingly endless sea.

  ”The ocean is a small reprieve from the summer heat,” he muses aloud, thoughtfully. ”my name is Offspring. What is yours?”

wounds so deep they never show; they never go away.
like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.

Offspring