DEIMOS
the fire can't touch me
for I have burned too many times
for I have burned too many times
He’d meant it’d be fine to not be well, to not be whole, to acknowledge the emotion, the feeling - but it scarcely seemed to matter. Gone out of his arms quickly; a strike against a match, and he remained still as her ire spiraled, eyes widening, attempting to exude something, anything, but incapable of finding the right note. And maybe there wasn’t one, nothing he could truly say, that would help the hurt and shattered remnants. A mask broken and quivering, gone in its ties, and maybe it was time to fall apart, for her to be rendered more than torn or frayed at the edges, so she could heal? So she could find ways to come back together?
Was that something any of them were capable of?
Some instances it was just his head above the water, barely floating, barely existing, down the barrage of currents and strife, taking them through twist after twist, turn after turn – and she’d saved him from going under. The Sword simply wasn’t sure how to go about the same, and the confusion lodged its way into his heart. “What are you pretending to be?” Fine? Well? Whole? What most of them painted on their features, day in and day out?
He followed, stopping at a crouch before her, remaining steady in the tempest, swallowing down bile choking, making its way down his throat. “None of us are the same.” For better, or for far worse. Terrifying, even. He offered his hands once more, uncertain if she would take them, if she wanted the support, if there was anything he could do. “What parts have changed?” What had sunken, to be revived, or merely lost again?
Was that something any of them were capable of?
Some instances it was just his head above the water, barely floating, barely existing, down the barrage of currents and strife, taking them through twist after twist, turn after turn – and she’d saved him from going under. The Sword simply wasn’t sure how to go about the same, and the confusion lodged its way into his heart. “What are you pretending to be?” Fine? Well? Whole? What most of them painted on their features, day in and day out?
He followed, stopping at a crouch before her, remaining steady in the tempest, swallowing down bile choking, making its way down his throat. “None of us are the same.” For better, or for far worse. Terrifying, even. He offered his hands once more, uncertain if she would take them, if she wanted the support, if there was anything he could do. “What parts have changed?” What had sunken, to be revived, or merely lost again?
the sea can't harm me
for I have been drowning all my life
for I have been drowning all my life
