DEIMOS
Everything felt tenuous, fragile, breakable; it had been seemingly eons since those sentiments had strangled him whole. He hated it, detested it, the thousand weights clambering down his spine and searing across his skin, each sigh a heavier munition, a scalding, transfixing thing. It shouldn’t have been like this – but wounds were fresh, binding, and each fragment was another old injury, another old laceration, another old scar coming to undulate between the new, raw ones. He’d borne them all before but now it felt worse, choking, suffocating, drowning, brewing along his lungs, his spine, all the rigid contortions that had held him upright for so long –
Her arms came around him, silent, quiet support for the everlasting battles they kept fighting, his eyes flickering down to smaller hands that held too much; covering them with his own, striving to take away some of the pressure, the multitudes, when everything else was already bearing down on him. What was one more? He could probably take it. He could probably handle it. He could probably reach and scorch the surface once more, and it would be like an eternity until everything righted again.
Except she was asking him not to, and the confusion riddled and rankled along his brow, on the temptation to sigh, or to snort. The enticement to deny; to cluster and coil back together on his own, because that was all he’d ever done. The Reaper would lift others or maim, rip, and tear for them, come back bloodied, occasionally get healed, rinse, repeat, a cycle of violence and detachment, apathy, indifference.
“Okay,” he swallowed down to both, body and mind honed to resist, exhaustion and fatigue wearing him down to acceptance. He made no move to evade or escape her grasp though, uncertain of how far he’d get before sinking or spiraling.
Her arms came around him, silent, quiet support for the everlasting battles they kept fighting, his eyes flickering down to smaller hands that held too much; covering them with his own, striving to take away some of the pressure, the multitudes, when everything else was already bearing down on him. What was one more? He could probably take it. He could probably handle it. He could probably reach and scorch the surface once more, and it would be like an eternity until everything righted again.
Except she was asking him not to, and the confusion riddled and rankled along his brow, on the temptation to sigh, or to snort. The enticement to deny; to cluster and coil back together on his own, because that was all he’d ever done. The Reaper would lift others or maim, rip, and tear for them, come back bloodied, occasionally get healed, rinse, repeat, a cycle of violence and detachment, apathy, indifference.
“Okay,” he swallowed down to both, body and mind honed to resist, exhaustion and fatigue wearing him down to acceptance. He made no move to evade or escape her grasp though, uncertain of how far he’d get before sinking or spiraling.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
