“ your heart is the softest place on earth ” [ sending you this meme mad late bc that's how i am lmao and you know who this is for ;D ]
POETRY STARTERS ( NAYYIRAH WAHEED ) / selectively accepting
IT IS THE DEAD OF NIGHT WHEN HER MEMORIES STIR , like something unwanted and wanted all at once , remnants from before the fire , before the lies , and she remembers her mother . it is when the town sleeps with the living earth that the ghost whispers echoes from when she was too young to understand , too young to listen ( she would go back now , if she could , and hang on to every word till her mother’s dying breath because it is now , with this weary soul and tired existence , that she knows their worth ) , too young to be obedient : she rings the bell and the town burns and her mother with it . she’s had a difficult relationship with fire ever since . it is tonight , as a memory cradles a healing heart , that her mother speaks words long forgotten : in the face of adversity , to remain soft is to be strong
somewhere in the haze , she recalls whispers . somewhere in the crackling fire , she hears their chorus . wise woman / wise woman / wise woman . it was what they called her mother until the fire claimed her , it was what the fire sang as that wonderful woman burned . newton had reminisced and called his wife many things , but he called her genius most as he scoured her tome in the dying candlelight , until want of death and a vial of poison reunited their loving souls . eve , however , forgot everything but a motherly warmth ( but even that began to fade ) as she grew / she forgot her words in the dawn of her despair . wonder if things would have been different if she hadn’t
in the tempest of their story , in the cruelty of their words , it was her softness that was not permitted . in their cold massacre , the high inquisitor must be firm , the witch must be cruel , and there’s no place for little eve so she must cease to exist . but she could not kill her , she was still kind and soft and everything they didn’t want and ‘ she is still me ’ . but that would not do so they did it for her . they killed the soft thing she used to be , broke open her chest and buried her within her ribcage and the girl began to rot there , polluted by witch trials and twisted magic and a growing belief in his proverbs : to be soft is to be weak and weakness is not permitted in your role . she grows with the seasons / she grew to resent her heart
ten years later and she was a dead thing for too long ( is that not what we call things that ignore their hearts , who try and function without it , as though it doesn’t still beat , though quieter this time ? ) . less girl , more puppet . can a strength held up by strings really be called a strength at all ? decisively , no , but it worked in the middle of a fabrication . she learned how to make people do what she couldn’t ( later she learns that this was not a bad thing ) . she gathers her knights like pieces on a chessboard and allows the inquisition to cast girls to a false death as though she had never struggled to let an innocent soul know the flames her mother became too acquainted with ( she did not struggle with the illusion of arthur’s death . he was not an innocent soul ) . it was easier to exist when she was not the hand that condemned , it was easier to hide . there was a lot of hiding
she played hide and seek behind masks , it became second nature after a while . little miss eve b.elduke died after the fire so she found other faces to try . they never fit exactly right but no one found her hiding behind faces that weren’t hers so they fit well enough . the masks became home after a while , if home was dark and lonely and unfeeling , if home was a place to become numb . she liked being numb
numb allowed her to survive . numb kept her sanity intact . numb kept her safe right up until her father died and then suddenly , she wasn’t numb anymore . SHE WAS BURNING . her tears burned , her hands burned , her heart burned . everything became hot and painful but she did not want to drown herself in sorrow or lose herself in the unforgiving expanse of the sea . she did not want relief . she did not want to be numb . she wanted to burn
she burns still , after the story , but milder this time , softer
it is the dead of night when he says what she is just discovering . she is learning how to feel whole in her skin again , and how softness and strength aren’t mutually exclusive . she claims softness in the name of a rose , in how a rose petal is but her thorn is not . it is when the town sleeps with the living earth that his words overlap with her mother’s and this time , she listens . it is tonight that she smiles a smile that is small instead of wide and every bit as soft as she is and rolls closer to him
she decided long ago , before the revolt and the plans and the burning , that she loved this man . between the numb and the masks , he planted himself within the cracks and his roots spread till they tangled around her heart and made it warm , and the warmth spread . it blossomed on her cheeks , birthed hidden smiles , brought spring to a winter castle ; he came into the story , strolled into her life , and she remembered how it felt to be alive
she decides now , for the millionth time , that she is glad he stayed , despite the lies and deception and horrific reveal . she is kind with e.spella and tamer with b.arnham , but she is only warm with simon because there is no one else who fits quite as well has he does . he knows things no one else knows : her happiness in how she is almost childish with her glee , her distress and the tears and desperation that follows , her anger in fire and brimstone and all consuming wrath , her soft heart that loves in full and remembers how to beat . eve was found behind her masks and found a home with him instead , in how a home is warm , in how a home is where her heart is
so she smiles and smiles and smiles , she does that more with him , and rests her head against his chest , trying to find the beat that steps in time with hers , and when she speaks , it is not self depreciation or shyness that makes itself known , but a pleasant tongue murmured in the night ❛ you’re biased ❜