DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
Deimos had long since perfected the art of smothering down any emotions, any sentiments, any sorrows, until they painted his core black; hollowed out the proportions until he couldn’t remember what it was like to not suppress the dominion. They spoke of vulnerability, of weaknesses he didn’t want the world to see, of frayed parts where he’d long since burnt the edges and left them to fester, weaken, decay, and die. Somewhere along the way Amalia had seemed to have done the same, no release to the world, clustered, hidden, tucked in between. The Sword didn’t know why; could hardly begin to imagine it was for his sake, the beast suffocating under the weight of all his other looped nooses.
She didn’t take either of his hands, and he knew he wasn’t grand or good at this: diffusing bits and pieces of her anger, of her bitterness. One time he’d thought to leave her alone while he fought her demons, and another time they’d merely spilled their pain upon one another in aftermaths of trauma. No one ever came to him for emotional support; he was built for slaying, for battles, for skirmishes, for clinging to shadows, for waiting, waiting, waiting.
And he would, for lifetimes, for her.
Stating the obvious hadn’t worked, her stature of I’m fine ringing around like the worst kind of lie, and calloused, rough fingers aimed to take hold of claws and figments of rage, share fortitude, and not oblivion. “Do you want to talk about it?” About why seeing Remi had been difficult (hadn’t they been friends?), about anything at all, instead of being trapped, or drowning in the abyss.
She didn’t take either of his hands, and he knew he wasn’t grand or good at this: diffusing bits and pieces of her anger, of her bitterness. One time he’d thought to leave her alone while he fought her demons, and another time they’d merely spilled their pain upon one another in aftermaths of trauma. No one ever came to him for emotional support; he was built for slaying, for battles, for skirmishes, for clinging to shadows, for waiting, waiting, waiting.
And he would, for lifetimes, for her.
Stating the obvious hadn’t worked, her stature of I’m fine ringing around like the worst kind of lie, and calloused, rough fingers aimed to take hold of claws and figments of rage, share fortitude, and not oblivion. “Do you want to talk about it?” About why seeing Remi had been difficult (hadn’t they been friends?), about anything at all, instead of being trapped, or drowning in the abyss.
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
