β β So, Collect your scars and wear βem well. Your blood is as good an ink as any. Go scratch your name into the clouds, and pull them all down. β β
( feeling all this weight , only one thought slipped out of his sorry lips . His tired eyes looking into hers with a weak, subtle, corrupt admiration . )
β β there are days I pray for indifference . β β
( He falls silent as his head is tugged up . Lost in his mind , struggling for anything to say . )
( his grief had consumed him . His responsibilities weighed on him , his mistakes chained him . Problem after problem choking him and begging for his downfall . )
cheek. it's not harmfulβββit's careful. seraph bled caress, but it feels foreign ; alarming. endowed with corrupt love. β« yet so greedy of * my power.
what doesnβt kill you leaves disfiguring scars. what doesnβt kill you fills you with paralyzing selfβhatred. what doesnβt kill you makes you afraid for the rest of your life. what doesnβt kill you might make you kill them.
β β Death is only a comfort for those who meet it . For the rest of us - it is torture . β β
( he shivered under the wrap . But in moments, seeing no danger , he settled . )
β β you call me weak as of grief can be helped . Grief is the most profound form of love . β β
undeniably she is dead. π¬ΊΝ in the end, everyone will, too, returning to nothing. why do you long for ? so vulnerable for that is nothing but mere illusion now, it makes you weak.
( always a poet , the king . )
β β having a finite end does not bring comfort . It brings pain . And if I am weak for missing her , so be it . β β
β β and yet - she told me . . . Donβt you dare cry, donβt you dare give up here just when I leave . β β
( his eyes