❛ (dear god), if it will keep my heart soft, break my heart every day. ❜ give me PAIN
« status for warsan v melancholy – the poetry sentence meme » → accepting.
i. on nights when the moon’s brighter than the stars, she sits at her coffee table and writes to him. She writes to him about the times before she died, about who she really is, about the first time she met him, how much he made her feel alive even though everything was a lie, and how much he made her feel loved. in her neat and very precise handwriting, she writes everything she couldn’t say. She’s always been a better storyteller with a pen than with her mouth. But that’s because she’s always been afraid even though there was no need to be afraid.
and yet still, her fingers tremble.
and yet still, she finds herself choking on tears.
(so this is how it beginsa pen in my hand because I can’t carry a sword.)
“What are you doing up?” She glances up from the table, staring at the familiar silhouette sitting up on the bed. His eyes are still slightly closed, a yawn breaking free as he rubs away at the weariness from the corners of his eyes. it takes him a few moments to fully take in her figure, how it hides the papers on the table as though they were a secret for him to not see (but his knowing eyes take in everything she is). “It’s late. What are you reading? Wait, are you writing something?”
She wants to panic, but that would just tell Christo that something was wrong. She doesn’t need him to understand now, this is for when he was gone and she has no one to speak to but the letters she writes for him (though he’d never read a single word of it).
“Nothing. I’m just a little inspired, so I decided to write a little bit.” She doesn’t lie, but there’s little truth laced on her words. Like venom, she spills ink into the air to somehow poison his mind into thinking everything was all right. But Christo’s used to the venom she uses to protect herself from anyone and everyone. Even those she tells she loves because still, like a child, she’s afraid.
(Can you see the love in my eyes? or has it been hidden by the fear that kisses you when you’re asleep?)
“What’s really on your mind?” the weariness turns into concern, morphed by the kindness he’s always had for her. He gives and gives, but all she does is take and take. She cowers when he asks these questions, looking down at the paper on the table as she folds it neatly to save for another time. A time where he wouldn’t be able to see her shame even though she’s sure that he would love ever word she’s written though maybe it would break his heart.
But she’s broken his heart before, why wouldn’t she do it again to match hers?
“I’m thinking too much.” She doesn’t look at him. The air thickens, the candle beside her loses its flame as the sudden drift slivering its way through the crack in the window takes out its light. “That’s all, really.”
“There’s never a ‘that’s all, really’ with you. what’s wrong?” she hates how much he understands. she’s been so sure that he didn’t, but the more she tells herself he doesn’t, the more he tells her otherwise.
and it’s then that she realizes just how much more she’s fond of him than she was two hours ago.
“Well, you’re right about that.” She laughs, turning her eyes to the candle as the melted wax falls half way before it thickens once again. The air smells slightly of smoke, rotting her lungs though she knows it doesn’t really. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”
and all she can hope for is that he would forget to ask when the moon sleeps and the sun kisses her skin.
ii. She lays beside him, his warmth her only joy in the coldness of her room.
iii. she sleeps beside him, kissed by his lips that fall on her forehead as he disappear from her side and wanders to the seat that’s already forgotten her warmth.
iv. She wakes at the sound of birds chirping at her window sill, loud against her ears. She wakes up cold, her only source of warmth besides the blanket gone from her side. It’s then that she looks up, stares with her mouth open when she realizes what’s in his hands and how terribly hurt he looks.
and yet still, her fingers tremble.
“What are you doing, Jieun?”
A sorry never leaves her lips. An explanation never leaves her lips because she has none that sound right. She has none that will tell him that she’s okay because she hasn’t really been okay. She doesn’t want to tell him how afraid she is, but she’s sure by how many papers have fallen to the ground that he’s read through her fears and more.
“Can’t you believe in me more than what you say in these papers?”
“I do believe in you! I have a reason for writing those.” She gets out of bed, but she never makes a move to walk closer to him. She’s torn by the look in his eyes, and she knows he hasn’t read enough to know everything that she wanted him to not know. It isn’t fair, but she hasn’t been fair. So all she can do is accept her defeat though she’s sure he doesn’t believe in that either. “I was being selfish. I just wanted something to keep me alive.”
“You are alive.” His resolution dies by the end of his sentence. He knows he’s not right, but he’s not wrong either. He knows that somewhere in her small body, nearly everything’s been dead for centuries. “You’re alive to me.”
(dear god), if it will keep my heart soft, break my heart every day.
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