It is worthless how frail arms cradle her own skull; vengeance in neglect not forgotten, unfettered muscle still endlessly beating in spite, spite of it all.
“Cast your cloak of wakefulness free of flesh, little love.”
Melodious songs, she hovers in a state of disgrace.
please, take all of me. take every part of me, take everything till there is nothing left. i won't mind, i'll love you regardless. i'll love you until i can no longer love.
“Are you afraid…?”
Eyes do not weep, not in this foul garden. Arms are fragile, abandoned by might—flesh clinging to bone; just so—fingertips yearning to taste salt of tears.
“I can keep you safe.”
“You 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒕 drink, sweet one.”
A chirp, gaze lazy—her fatigue an eternal curse as she sways in her blossoming elegance. Petals soft, petals caressed by a violet hell, her tresses spill over their edges.
“You look so weary. Let the nectar carry you into the 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱.”
Devoted, weak fingers seek the darling 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧’𝙨 face—ghosting for treachery.
“The war drums beat in your cage. If you must slaughter…” Voice meek, she swallows a breath—seconds bleeding with the exploration of fingers.
“Save the poor soul. I cannot recognise him.”