SHE SLEEPS IN A HEAP OF CLIPPED WINGS, their ghosts fluttering above her head at night, beating against the glass, and weeping, to no avail, to be let in to the kingdom that had long since abandoned them. was she to be added to zima’s wretched collection ? his jar of dead butterflies ? no, she’d like to think herself an invasive species – more atropos moth than butterfly ; at a glance, winsome enough in her innocent face to pass for one, but behind her back she held death’s head like a mark of cain. what has been done to me, will fall upon you sevenfold.
SHE WIPES AWAY HER WEAKNESS, THEN, grateful for the dark seraph’s cruelty. it begs her to stay sharp, kindness only dulls the knife. ❛ i know the devil loves such blasphemy, but i’m afraid my pride is greater than his. i shouldn’t wish to die when neither he, nor god are deserving of me yet. ❜ however, the reality of his warning was a tug of her noose just the same, acknowledged and then ignored out of spite, out of necessity. ❛ but if he is as infallible as you say, then someone needs to stop him – – or die trying. and i’d sooner see goliath’s head on a platter than resign to anything else. ❜
seraphic twilight , a wound in the heart of scripture : where have you gone , holiest ? tucked away into your passages , a creature bathed in its own self - hatred . how long before life erodes away that devotion ? ( never : there is always another god with teeth & jaw waiting to swallow him whole ) . the nature of divinity . he’s meant for a life on his knees .
( yet : still a wolf , under that white gleam of moonlight , when it catches on the sharp curve of his cheek and the golden hair curled at the nape of his neck . wolves don’t speak in scripture . they speak in violence . and what is he , if not wolven ? )
--------------- holy , unholy . it doesn’t matter any longer .
her proclamation meets stony silence ; an awful thing , steeped in the blood of it all . there’s no give to that wretched weight of him . ‘ what is your plan ? run a knife through his heart ? poison ? fire ? it would not work . ‘ his fingers curl : in them , he is imagining flesh & bone & sinew , vicious things that sit at the base of his throat . a rot , at the core ! things he begs forgiveness for at twilight . forgiveness , because damnation will not change his course . ‘ dismemberment , maybe ? have you ever hacked a body to pieces ? you would have to be careful . thorough . if you make one mistake , it would only take a single thrall to put him back to rights . and he’d come for you . ‘
he leans forward . forearms to knees , eyes bright and blue and terrible in the darkness . ‘ and even if you were successful , that blood would never wash out . his skin beneath your nails . his screams in your head . will you carve his head off , yourself ? dripping gore and sinew , so you can plate it up ? ‘ it’s a strange , hypnotic poetry , a sweetness to his words that belies their saying . oh , this is the darkness , that righteous , awful cruelty of angels descended from the heavens . it weaves around his hands . ‘ how deep is your hunger really ? ‘
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
jbbartram-illu
yousharknotpass
areudirty
