@grievice : ❝ you don’t have to hide them around me. the scars are just part of who you are. and i like all of what i see. ❞ // from naoya @grievice !!
Which face? A hand that moves quickly revealing another, an assortment that is drawn, like a mask made of the finest of porcelains && another shall be discarded. Soft, round cheeks with a small nose, rose shaped pout that upturns gracefully, that was not the real Sayuri. With radiant emerald eyes && cheekbones that were razor sharp, a woman that was marred with a gashing scar across the bridge of her nose, her smile that was melancholy from youth && naughty. It was customary of Kobayashi women to attune their beauty however they saw fit, impeccable creatures that were heavenly in their displays of grandeur && others preferred to remain remnants of their curse; monstrous && cruel. The small gift from girlhood, where she learned quickly to conjure the cosmos in her hues, milky in pulls of celestial bliss.
He drew no delight from such trickery, enough that her heart would wilt in confusion, why? She could never understand. “This visage displeases me” plainly, she utters the words, hands clasping upon her lap as the imagery shatters. Fragmented into shards, it leaves her vulnerable to be seen, stripped of bindings && glamor, torn apart from what kept the inner confines of her soul safe. Sayuri was unsure of such sincerity came from sympathy but, the Zen’ins were not known for this, a weak heart brought them no joy && was instantly deemed one that could not survive, she knew better than to suspect such things. Laughter bubbling in the confines of her chest, there were times she pondered, what brought them terror? The knowledge she could move amongst their own, wearing a face of a beloved son or adoring wife or that the scars upon her were a reminder; she would bring ruin if given the chance. “Tch, how many times have we fought over this pointless argument?” Yet, she hadn’t the heart to acknowledge it was her pride that forbade her from accepting what was imposed, failure that came from each laceration, where the pain was blistering hot && searing.
Flesh, in ribbons she remembers then it becomes stagnant, numbing, in the midst of chaos there is a crown she wishes to rebuke, ever the faithful, she wears it with reluctance. “It becomes that of breathing, after a while, I begin to forget there is another’s skin I wear” the impossible distance she has placed, far from those she held dear within her heart, the fabled belief that in this deception; she could keep them safe. Earnest in her wording, it was strange to speak of the centuries old technique, prized && beheld by few within the lineage that stressed outsiders were never to learn the inner workings of their sanctum. She cups his jawline, ravenous to feel closer, anything to ward away the chill that remains within her bones when she depicts honesty.
“All that is beauty becomes rot; you alone should know that” dropping each digit, a soft sigh followed, bottom tier jotting outwards in a pout. “There is no point in squabbling about this, you adore them, I detest them - we both have our reasons”
