♡ op. / @promoyros:
there are times when little lamb bleats in aorta contortions, where her chest shivers and shakes in soul searching screaming sanctifying nothing and signaling even less. a shout to nothing, a prayer to no one. girl guzzles gasoline on the last-ditch fumes of forgotten fealty, waiting for signal smoke to climb higher with each thought adding to this pariah pyre. locket lipped girls more akin to graveyards than bleeding hearts-she cannot identify her tissues from her tears. but they no longer shed, a dam damnable disaster-a walking wasteland of potential and pity. but viridian steels under flamed furnace, spine a thorn in the thistle of her frame. she straightens herself, pulls her shoulders back like she had seen her mother do under gazes much larger than her-but no one could look down on her. who looks down upon olympus?
‘–i have been a lifelong experience.’
How easy it is to become entangled within the threads of experience——to be shaped, stitched, and snipped by fate, but never by choice; who smothers themselves in strings by choice? Blameless are the entwined, betrayed by blood of the covenant and water of the womb, neither thick nor thinner than the other. Viscosity is an aspect inapplicable because victims do not know that they are victims when it is. Titles obscure truth, emblazoned epithets to protect a gilded rottenness. Pyrite exteriors.
It was never your fault.
How easy it is to see innocence in another, a trait learned by his experience——to look into the lethargic, listless, and languid eyes of a little girl who was never levied choice. He knew her words were learned; lines of someone’s favorite poem.
“ It was never your fault. “
How easy it is to liberate another, while he himself would be forced to lie in wait, ever-chained by experience.
