here is the repeated image of a lover destroyed; glassheart

[Cordis]

She assumes the memories are hers, and hers alone. She is the bearer, the keeper of them – the last thing left alive of those memories, sweet as hazel, bitter as blood. They replay constantly, over and over again, taking on a hazy, ethereal quality. They say memories repeated too often become warped. That the purest memories are the ones not thought of at all. If that’s the case, well – her memories are ruined. Ruin is nothing new to her. She walks ruined - is ruined. Too much has happened. To her. Because of her, maybe. The lightning is tight to her skin. It never leaves, these days. There’s no reason for it to. She does not want to be touched, not by anyone living. (Maybe her children. But they are scattered to the winds. They have not come looking for her, and she understands why. She was never much of a mother.) She does not look older. Magic keeps her young, keeps her as beautiful as it can. She gleams, in the sun, under the cage of lightning. She’s silver. The color of swords. Metal forged sharp. Once, she rested against gold. Alchemy and electrum. Metals merged. (It was everything. A flashpoint of perfection.) Now, it’s just silver. Except – a flash of gold catches her eye. It’s not the same. Yet – a hint of sameness. An echo. Warped and distorted, just like those over-worn memories. A woman who spent years or decades or centuries memorizing the architecture of her lover knows when it’s replicated. (Warped.) Almost. The girl is gold. Gold runs in the family. (Just like silver runs in hers. Both her daughters were silver.) She chokes when she looks at her. Such a warped familiarity. There’s no river. And she’s already dressed in lighting. Still – she cannot walk away. Of course not. She goes to her. She catches the sun, blinding. The lightning crackles static in her ears. Her hearts pound. (I carry your heart, I carry it with me) “You…” she says, almost accusatory, almost reverently. “You look like someone I knew.” The past tense of it knifes her. It always does. She is so used to bleeding. c o r d i s I’ll touch you all and make damn sure that no one touches me

HIIII

disclaimer this post was written post-multiple glasses prosecco and drunk me loves the enter button