DEIMOS
Tired, listless, languid, the armor dropped and gone away, and left in its place was some hollowed vessel, some pieces of gnarled, knotted thread, and the fortitude, the perseverance, to remain. He might’ve been rooted to the floor if left to his own devices, if not pulled and coaxed, if not given something else to do than mire himself into his entangled brooding and fatigue. A myriad of weights bound and tied, drowned and suffocated, to the point where even his eyelids felt heavy, as he followed upstairs, as he gave no fight along pathways, as he simply existed. Numbed – spending too long immersed in those choking nooses, in those haunting memories, had merely turned him into stone; how he processed, how he escaped, how he evaded.
The Sword didn’t know what he expected – but it wasn’t her at his chest, standing there while she slowly slid buttons of his shirt open, as fabric was drawn away, as layers peeled and pardoned, lifting his arms to let them be stripped and gone, tossed aside, forgotten. A catch in his breath, a stolen sigh somewhere, and he was unfurled, vulnerable again. He existed in his scars, in the segments of lines and upheaval, pale and stark, traced outlines of days spent in might and menace. He’d never been ashamed of them before. He’d always borne them proudly, because each had held significant meanings: that he’d defended, that he’d protected, that he’d guarded, that he’d survived.
Should he have been abashed, apologetic, for all the other anthems, banners, and tattoos they carried and represented? Did she hate their signatures, their scrawls, their irreverence? Because he was outlined in them, sketched and corded, each one a testament, a story, to his existence, as much a part of him as deadly invocations, as mountains, as oceans, as tragedy, loss, and the contorted composure, the calm platitudes strung beneath ice and sorrow. Deimos was nearly afraid to ask, eyes drifting down to her, her, and her, as her hands freed, as her fingers plucked; where she’d once traced the arches and lines, he pondered if she could only stare upon the marks in disgust. So the inquiry was quiet, hushed, barely a rumble, a grumble, through lungs and larynx. “Do you hate them now?”
The Sword didn’t know what he expected – but it wasn’t her at his chest, standing there while she slowly slid buttons of his shirt open, as fabric was drawn away, as layers peeled and pardoned, lifting his arms to let them be stripped and gone, tossed aside, forgotten. A catch in his breath, a stolen sigh somewhere, and he was unfurled, vulnerable again. He existed in his scars, in the segments of lines and upheaval, pale and stark, traced outlines of days spent in might and menace. He’d never been ashamed of them before. He’d always borne them proudly, because each had held significant meanings: that he’d defended, that he’d protected, that he’d guarded, that he’d survived.
Should he have been abashed, apologetic, for all the other anthems, banners, and tattoos they carried and represented? Did she hate their signatures, their scrawls, their irreverence? Because he was outlined in them, sketched and corded, each one a testament, a story, to his existence, as much a part of him as deadly invocations, as mountains, as oceans, as tragedy, loss, and the contorted composure, the calm platitudes strung beneath ice and sorrow. Deimos was nearly afraid to ask, eyes drifting down to her, her, and her, as her hands freed, as her fingers plucked; where she’d once traced the arches and lines, he pondered if she could only stare upon the marks in disgust. So the inquiry was quiet, hushed, barely a rumble, a grumble, through lungs and larynx. “Do you hate them now?”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
