➰
For every ➰ I get, I'll reveal a muse that I played in the past | accepting.
the tingle of a spine. the buzzing of flies. the chilling hand of death. a spectral figure that ushers you to sleep. to lay. to rest. to ignore engagements.
to turn a cheek to those in need. birthed before adam. tempting to eve.
rotting in filth. damaged for its insolence. there is a balance. mutilation was the cost.
“you hide in the shadows. afraid of your own reflection.” its voice is soft, hair. the very process of breathing ached. empty eyes flicker forward, unseeing but all knowing.
centuries old. a large four poster bed. tattered curtains clawed into velvet ribbon hung dusty and forgotten. its color now stained maroon. blackened from aged harvest.
pillows softer than the songs of the angels. a nest. a trap. come. sleep. let me offer you the dream.
“nothing knows nothing.” it spoke to the dark. fingers curled against the closest pillar. it was more effort than it had used in so many years, months? days?
had a minute passed? had a breath.
it took it - the breath. brought the borrowed vessel back to life. twist the joints and crack the ribs with a breath. and then two.
too much. far too much.
‘pity. i am not the sin you are after.”
@enigmatias
