Deimos
THE RESURRECTED SWORD
How did you survive? they ask
How long did you suffer?
how dark did they tint your dreams?There were times where he would’ve liked to break; fallen in pieces, in frayed strands, beneath the weight of anything and everything – ghosts and specters, wraiths and tombs, claws raking down his sides, failure bounding for his heart, contorting its rhythm to shards, slivers, and fissures. There were times where he likely should’ve, bowing his head instead, contorting and covering himself in mantles, in barricades, in bastions and cannons, hardening, iron and forge and steel, pretending he wasn’t a fool, settling in his abysmal pretenses and blistering, scathing whims. Utterly mortal and immoral, shaking at the thought of his imminent debacles, because at his core, that was who he was (inadequate, inept, trying, trying, trying, stretching out his arms and his hands to catch them all and missing).
He’d like to leave everything behind – just them, for a second, for a moment, without the overtures of doom sneaking and snaking along their shoulders and spines. She billowed the onslaught away, and he grasped hold as if she were everything, eyes still closed, the depths of his gaze covered, not betraying the scorching scores of insinuations and defeats in the cluster of blue. Her lips were on his again, bright and ardent, faith and deliverance, credence and convictions coiling into his core, leaning into her embrace, striving to match her depths, her dreams.
What would it be like, to believe in himself?
The beast didn’t want her to pull away, because it meant that the inevitable was coming, that his lack of success was only a foreboding venture now – pressing down on his soul, a knife brandished towards his ribs. But the blade stayed and stilled at her voice, at her chords, wondering if he could drown in it, willingly refuse to resurface in the fathoms of her devotion. “Love you,” he shortened and pressed, no matter what you choose billowing against his chest; no matter the failure, no matter the outcome. His stare reopened, segmenting straight at her, hands clutching at hers, desperate to find strength to move forward, to go, go, go, towards shrines beneath moonlight and stars, dusk falling over them. “I will come find you,” when it is over, whether he’d succeeded or floundered.
He’d like to leave everything behind – just them, for a second, for a moment, without the overtures of doom sneaking and snaking along their shoulders and spines. She billowed the onslaught away, and he grasped hold as if she were everything, eyes still closed, the depths of his gaze covered, not betraying the scorching scores of insinuations and defeats in the cluster of blue. Her lips were on his again, bright and ardent, faith and deliverance, credence and convictions coiling into his core, leaning into her embrace, striving to match her depths, her dreams.
What would it be like, to believe in himself?
The beast didn’t want her to pull away, because it meant that the inevitable was coming, that his lack of success was only a foreboding venture now – pressing down on his soul, a knife brandished towards his ribs. But the blade stayed and stilled at her voice, at her chords, wondering if he could drown in it, willingly refuse to resurface in the fathoms of her devotion. “Love you,” he shortened and pressed, no matter what you choose billowing against his chest; no matter the failure, no matter the outcome. His stare reopened, segmenting straight at her, hands clutching at hers, desperate to find strength to move forward, to go, go, go, towards shrines beneath moonlight and stars, dusk falling over them. “I will come find you,” when it is over, whether he’d succeeded or floundered.
- until you had blood glistening on your teeth
- until your suffering paled in comparison to their own
- until you learned to enjoy the sounds of screams
