Kaisel
One foot in the ground
One foot in the grave
One foot in the grave
He doesn't know what possessed him to think he has a right to hold her like this—like she is his to soothe and shelter from the world. Sometimes he gets so focused on the end, he doesn't always stop to consider the means to get there. Just like that night at her house, so driven to get back at her and put surprise on her damn face, all at the expense of smudging a line. He's doing it again, he realizes too late, when he feels her twine around him like a vine. Her fingers through his hair are like a match strike, and his skin feels too much like kindling in the places where they connect.
He put them here. Gods, what is wrong with him? Like this, her in his arms, tucked to his chest and twisted against him, it's far too easy to ask for more when all this time he's been staunchly demanding less. He just wanted her to feel better. Wanted her to stop. Couldn't stand to watch her belittle herself. Now he's holding the sun in his hand and it burns.
Her kerosine kiss nearly undoes him. He exhales something like gravel as his teeth set against the sensation, and he reels as he turns to carry her down the stairs he watched her descend previously. He needs her out of his grip now or else he doesn't think he can remain her, and he's certain leaping off the boat to escape her won't improve her day. "You need to get out of the sun," he works his voice over the hoarseness of resistance; it's subdued. "I think it's fried your brain," he aims for a tease, safer territory for them both.
Steadily he takes them down, and as he walks her murmurs into her hair, "I want you to tell me all the good things you think about yourself." He glances around for a bench or a seat to place her on, this ghost of the girl he knows. "I'll tell you when I've heard enough, otherwise you don't stop."
He put them here. Gods, what is wrong with him? Like this, her in his arms, tucked to his chest and twisted against him, it's far too easy to ask for more when all this time he's been staunchly demanding less. He just wanted her to feel better. Wanted her to stop. Couldn't stand to watch her belittle herself. Now he's holding the sun in his hand and it burns.
Her kerosine kiss nearly undoes him. He exhales something like gravel as his teeth set against the sensation, and he reels as he turns to carry her down the stairs he watched her descend previously. He needs her out of his grip now or else he doesn't think he can remain her, and he's certain leaping off the boat to escape her won't improve her day. "You need to get out of the sun," he works his voice over the hoarseness of resistance; it's subdued. "I think it's fried your brain," he aims for a tease, safer territory for them both.
Steadily he takes them down, and as he walks her murmurs into her hair, "I want you to tell me all the good things you think about yourself." He glances around for a bench or a seat to place her on, this ghost of the girl he knows. "I'll tell you when I've heard enough, otherwise you don't stop."
It's not the devil at your door
It's just your shadow on the floor
It's just your shadow on the floor
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
