AURELIA
and my hands aren't clean
maybe they never will be
maybe they never will be
Milo's confusion was clear as glass, reflected through his expressive eyes. Aurelia tipped her head downward, searching them for a moment. He made an attempt at remedying what moment was already lost, and Aurelia felt responsible for that. She pressed her brows together, pressed her lips against each other again, running her tongue over them. Was she still like that? She wanted to laugh, and a bit of it bloomed in her chest, coming out through her mouth in a soft rumble. She wasn't laughing at him, though, no; she was laughing at her own sorry self. Damn it all.
"If only it was that easy," she stated simply. If he didn't understand, if he was naive to these depths, so be it. He would learn, especially if he stuck around her long enough.
Did she want to be different? Yes. Was she, though? She couldn't ignore the gravitational pull of her axis; to calculate her next move, to never fully trust someone that delved in magic, to never fully commit to anything except herself. As generous as she was, as much as she wanted to be entangled with others' lives, to give all she had to them, she was held back by the selfishness of securing her own survival, of falling back into what she knew. She had to be sure about it, and she wasn't sure about Milo.
He turned his face away towards the ocean, to the waves that she knew lapped hungrily at a sandy shore. She didn't need to look at them to know, so she stared at him. His red hair that ruffled along his scalp, the trail of a story written across his body, but most importantly - the tension that pulled him away, that awkward give and take. She accepted it by now, bad as it felt.
She took his question in stride, her gaze softening as she finally followed his out to the midnight ocean. There would always be a part of her that she held close; the killer. "I'll hurt anyone I have to..." she admitted, curling her knuckles against the tough skin of her palm as the salty wind buffeted against her face. "I do what I need to do, what I've had to... to survive," she glanced back at him, peering to gauge his reaction, knowing that she wasn't telling him what he wanted to hear but at the same time she wished she fucking could. She racked her brain for the words that could help him understand.
"Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two different things... and it's not that I can't let go, I want to," she swallowed and her throat felt dry. It hurt with the rawness of speaking the truth that followed. Her voice cracked and her eyes watered in reflection of it, "but I'm afraid to."
"If only it was that easy," she stated simply. If he didn't understand, if he was naive to these depths, so be it. He would learn, especially if he stuck around her long enough.
Did she want to be different? Yes. Was she, though? She couldn't ignore the gravitational pull of her axis; to calculate her next move, to never fully trust someone that delved in magic, to never fully commit to anything except herself. As generous as she was, as much as she wanted to be entangled with others' lives, to give all she had to them, she was held back by the selfishness of securing her own survival, of falling back into what she knew. She had to be sure about it, and she wasn't sure about Milo.
He turned his face away towards the ocean, to the waves that she knew lapped hungrily at a sandy shore. She didn't need to look at them to know, so she stared at him. His red hair that ruffled along his scalp, the trail of a story written across his body, but most importantly - the tension that pulled him away, that awkward give and take. She accepted it by now, bad as it felt.
She took his question in stride, her gaze softening as she finally followed his out to the midnight ocean. There would always be a part of her that she held close; the killer. "I'll hurt anyone I have to..." she admitted, curling her knuckles against the tough skin of her palm as the salty wind buffeted against her face. "I do what I need to do, what I've had to... to survive," she glanced back at him, peering to gauge his reaction, knowing that she wasn't telling him what he wanted to hear but at the same time she wished she fucking could. She racked her brain for the words that could help him understand.
"Who we are and who we need to be to survive are two different things... and it's not that I can't let go, I want to," she swallowed and her throat felt dry. It hurt with the rawness of speaking the truth that followed. Her voice cracked and her eyes watered in reflection of it, "but I'm afraid to."
but they can still carry you home
when you're ready to sleep
when you're ready to sleep
