the moon lives in the lining of your skin; ryatah

[Ryatah]

── and i was never sure whether you were the lighthouse or the storm ──

Most days, that jungle-home that she had been shaped in felt like several lifetimes ago. And in a way, it was. She has lived and died so many times in Beqanna, and each life was brimming with heartache and twisted romances and events that she could have never possibly predicted. The idea that the girl raised in Amazonhollow ever existed was impossible even for her to believe.

Boheme was now the only one left that had ever known that girl. The one that was porcelain-smooth and unscarred, the one that was still learning the art of being compliant and obedient and yet interesting enough not to be cast aside.

The foundation that turned her into the wayward, fragmented creature she has become.

That naive, doe-eyed girl was nothing at all like the broken and remade woman that stood alongside the river now. She teems with all of her histories, all of her stories etched into her bones and scarred across her skin like a map. Angel wings now rest easily at her sides, trimmed in gold and radiating that ethereal glow that emanates from the rest of her. When she hears a familiar voice, she turns her delicate head, the gray stones that rest uneasily in her sockets alight by the glow of a misleading halo.

“Boheme,” she breathes the mare’s name into her neck, pressing her pale lips to the black of her skin. She laughs, silver and lilting when she traces the familiar shape of her face. “I always miss you,” she says as her teeth pull gently at the tangled strands of her wild mane. “Where do you disappear to?”

ryatah

@[boheme]

if it's not clear, she doesn't have eyes (again) and carnage put rocks in her sockets as placeholders because he's a gentleman.