And all that she intends, all she keeps inside.. [birth;any]

[Reuen]

in my field of paper flowers There was a coldness in me then, deep and dark and icy cold. There was no wind, not even a gentle breeze lulling by, but the feeling grew from the pit of my stomach, flaring up until the shards of ice seemed to embed every part of me, from each nodule of my spine to the very tip of my mind, where it stayed. Grabbing and grasping with frostbitten hands, suffocating, choking. There was nothing there, just blank space, empty, forgotten. Shadows crease the white of my mind, searching in vain attempts like I have for the past several days. Trying to remember, trying to understand what this leg does, what this nose smells. And right now, it smells honeysuckle and life, pain and new beginnings. My eyes are hollow as they look upon the mare, noting every sleek curve, her swollen barrel. She reeks of new life, of sweat and pain, of blood and slithers of regret. She’s had a taste of pain, of horror and this, this is now the fruitful offerings. My ears are lax atop my crown, unmoving, the same as my chocolate body. As still as a statue, the only movement the fluttering of my creamy locks in the soft lull of the spring air. I lower my nose, touching her gently, my course velvet lips pressing against her feverish skin, alive with pulse, raging with full veins. ’Stay. Please. Stay.’ my inflection is cool, feather-light and sweet. Strange, everything is strange. The hoarseness in my throat that makes everything sound husky, the weight on my hooves that feels burdensome, heavy. Each muscle taut, tightening even further as I turn my gaze to observe the quiet bundle that reaches legs into the new world. Tottering limbs grace mother earth and the small one’s nose reaches for the sky, there, thereI look upon the mother and the child with a strange feeling, like a bulllet wound to the chest, blossoming blood across me, broadening and broadening with the dull ache of something, anything. And that, that is when I feel something, I feel something for the first time I have entered this paradise prison. Creamy mane, knotted with streaks of dry crimson, fly across my face as I shift, each stony hoof heavy and burdensome as they crush the sweet clover beneath my feet. I shift, to angle myself more towards the child, the weakened mother still close and in my sights. I breathe in, and it’s like my first breath of life alongside the small bundle. Sweet honeysuckle, rich spring scents of grass and clover and the delicate twang of mint. Life is sweet, life is good. I turn my faraway gaze back to the mare. ’Gentle… Gentle…’ soft muzzle, course velvet, presses the gentlest of touches to the mare. calming, soothing.  I can’t bear the pain anymore, the quiver of her muzzle mimicking my own. ’Tioga.’ i lie inside myself for hours;