09-09-2021, 08:25 PM
so don’t forget to love me in damnation
For the living i have earned on love gone wrong
For the living i have earned on love gone wrong
Perhaps she had been expecting a different answer.
Or perhaps she had not yet learned that the truth can be brutal at times.
When she’s older, it’ll be the kind of question she’ll keep to herself but she is a bold thing, a rogue thing, a wild thing and it comes spilling out of her mouth before she can think better of it.
And she stands there, glowing so brightly she can hardly open her eyes, and listens.
Listens to him say: yes, but I’m getting used to it.
And then listens to: sometimes it feels like being buried alive, sometimes he worries he won’t wake up at all, sometimes the skin turns faster than the rest of him.
Her breath hitches and she closes her eyes tightly, flinching away from the brutality of it.
(Because she has only known good things and kind things and the softness of her brother’s thoughts and this is something else altogether.) But closing her eyes does nothing to stop the flow of his thoughts and a vise tightens around her windpipe like she can almost feel it, too. And she wants to offer him some comfort but doing so would mean admitting that she’d heard it all.
She doesn’t open her eyes again until he asks her something instead and she blinks at him, his passive expression, as if these thoughts had not just been churning through his head, too. She swallows thickly, surprised to find that her glow has not dimmed any with the darkness of these things.
(How long will she stay his sun?)
She glances down at her leg, though she cannot see the place where the branch had nicked her flesh and left her bleeding through the blinding light emanating from every inch of her. “It was red,” she mumbles and then looks back up at him.
(Has she not learned her lesson?)
“Have you seen blood that’s a different color than red?”
Or perhaps she had not yet learned that the truth can be brutal at times.
When she’s older, it’ll be the kind of question she’ll keep to herself but she is a bold thing, a rogue thing, a wild thing and it comes spilling out of her mouth before she can think better of it.
And she stands there, glowing so brightly she can hardly open her eyes, and listens.
Listens to him say: yes, but I’m getting used to it.
And then listens to: sometimes it feels like being buried alive, sometimes he worries he won’t wake up at all, sometimes the skin turns faster than the rest of him.
Her breath hitches and she closes her eyes tightly, flinching away from the brutality of it.
(Because she has only known good things and kind things and the softness of her brother’s thoughts and this is something else altogether.) But closing her eyes does nothing to stop the flow of his thoughts and a vise tightens around her windpipe like she can almost feel it, too. And she wants to offer him some comfort but doing so would mean admitting that she’d heard it all.
She doesn’t open her eyes again until he asks her something instead and she blinks at him, his passive expression, as if these thoughts had not just been churning through his head, too. She swallows thickly, surprised to find that her glow has not dimmed any with the darkness of these things.
(How long will she stay his sun?)
She glances down at her leg, though she cannot see the place where the branch had nicked her flesh and left her bleeding through the blinding light emanating from every inch of her. “It was red,” she mumbles and then looks back up at him.
(Has she not learned her lesson?)
“Have you seen blood that’s a different color than red?”
anaise
