DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
And maybe, truly, he didn’t know how to heal. Physical means were so much easier – lacerations stitched closed, flesh and tissue mended, no lingering aches or pains, scars left as reminders, sketches, and outlines of battles forged and fought. But the emotional ones, the ties and nooses around his heart and soul, choked and suffocated, intermingled and wove themselves so tightly that everyday became a drowning expanse. He let them fester and decay, then breathe again with so much as a glimmer of a memory, an image brought back to life in the corners of his mind. “How?” He whispered – because he couldn’t be like this forever, for eternities, for another life. He couldn’t keep alternating between fortress and sand, between unattainable, unreachable, and bitterly, rancorously fallen. Every time he stepped away, every time he thought he’d escaped, it returned with a cool, cruel, damning vengeance. The beast could raise his head and refuse to bow down to the treacheries of the world, but they all knew it was a farce, a lie, a stone eventually given to crumbling, eroding.
His lives had been full of losses, despite every angle of striving to overcome them. And he was more, had to be more, than those pinnacles of depletion and demise.
Even now, the monolith hated that he was falling apart, that portions were unraveling and heartache was so prevalent, when he should’ve been strong and enduring, persevering and indifferent, taking great strides over corpses and carcasses and not giving. Not caring. Not splintering. Not fracturing. There were a few moments where he took a breath and wondered if he could simply pile it all back together and leave her alone, lift his head and not have her bear every god damned nuance of his mess, for it wasn’t hers to carry either.
But the safety was encompassing and empowering, and he couldn’t remember a recent time where he’d had a shelter of his own. He presided and provided sanctuaries and sanctums for all of those in his reach, in his keep, and then didn’t bother with any for himself. Time and time again Deimos had reminded his soul, his entity, that he couldn’t repeat the ways of the Reaper, and yet, still they haunted. Not so gone. Not so misplaced. One and the same, no matter what he did.
The world didn’t care, but people did, and he choked back something – it might’ve been a laugh, it might’ve been a snort, it might’ve been a sob, inelegant and muffled. Held dearly now, but hadn’t been for a long time, and he’d considered himself unworthy of the cause. Undeserving. Time had taught him that again and again. So had individuals. So had those he loved and cherished and protected, until they saw him as not enough. “Sorry,” he murmured, uncertain what for. For a lot of things.
He accepted it for now, the advice, the understanding, the nuances, but gods he didn’t know where to go from here. “What am I supposed to do?”
His lives had been full of losses, despite every angle of striving to overcome them. And he was more, had to be more, than those pinnacles of depletion and demise.
Even now, the monolith hated that he was falling apart, that portions were unraveling and heartache was so prevalent, when he should’ve been strong and enduring, persevering and indifferent, taking great strides over corpses and carcasses and not giving. Not caring. Not splintering. Not fracturing. There were a few moments where he took a breath and wondered if he could simply pile it all back together and leave her alone, lift his head and not have her bear every god damned nuance of his mess, for it wasn’t hers to carry either.
But the safety was encompassing and empowering, and he couldn’t remember a recent time where he’d had a shelter of his own. He presided and provided sanctuaries and sanctums for all of those in his reach, in his keep, and then didn’t bother with any for himself. Time and time again Deimos had reminded his soul, his entity, that he couldn’t repeat the ways of the Reaper, and yet, still they haunted. Not so gone. Not so misplaced. One and the same, no matter what he did.
The world didn’t care, but people did, and he choked back something – it might’ve been a laugh, it might’ve been a snort, it might’ve been a sob, inelegant and muffled. Held dearly now, but hadn’t been for a long time, and he’d considered himself unworthy of the cause. Undeserving. Time had taught him that again and again. So had individuals. So had those he loved and cherished and protected, until they saw him as not enough. “Sorry,” he murmured, uncertain what for. For a lot of things.
He accepted it for now, the advice, the understanding, the nuances, but gods he didn’t know where to go from here. “What am I supposed to do?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
