there are few things that are as lovely as his sister when she weaves a lie. the shape of her mouth is effortless, her dark eyes conscienceless-- all parts of the scheme, all tricks and smoke and mirrors to fool a fool into believing the pale girl with the pretty face. she's a tyrant, his sister. a beast and a woman-- he can't be sure which is worse-- and how strange it is, he thinks, to see her whisper truths into her children's ears.
she wants to dig her fingers into all his soft spots and feel from the outside the things that beat and pulse inside. she wants to show him how thin his skin is. she wants to bite until he bleeds.
the sound of the pen starts and stops, starts and stops, with the rise and fall of the sun. a sharp scraping noise made soft, almost agreeable, by the wood of the door between them. the varnish has worn thin and almost bare on the hardwood floor beneath him, but he doesn't mind, just leans his temple against the door frame and listens to stanzas write and rewrite themselves using words he hasn't yet learned.
his back is sore. his mouth fails to smile. but if his maker does not sleep today then neither will he.
sometimes when he concentrates he can remember words to songs from different lifetimes. dirges, anthems, lullabies. all of them sung to him by her voice. all of them love songs.
Comments 15
there are few things that are as lovely as his sister when she weaves a lie. the shape of her mouth is effortless, her dark eyes conscienceless-- all parts of the scheme, all tricks and smoke and mirrors to fool a fool into believing the pale girl with the pretty face. she's a tyrant, his sister. a beast and a woman-- he can't be sure which is worse-- and how strange it is, he thinks, to see her whisper truths into her children's ears.
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she wants to dig her fingers into all his soft spots and feel from the outside the things that beat and pulse inside. she wants to show him how thin his skin is. she wants to bite until he bleeds.
Reply
the sound of the pen starts and stops, starts and stops, with the rise and fall of the sun. a sharp scraping noise made soft, almost agreeable, by the wood of the door between them. the varnish has worn thin and almost bare on the hardwood floor beneath him, but he doesn't mind, just leans his temple against the door frame and listens to stanzas write and rewrite themselves using words he hasn't yet learned.
his back is sore. his mouth fails to smile. but if his maker does not sleep today then neither will he.
Reply
sometimes when he concentrates he can remember words to songs from different lifetimes. dirges, anthems, lullabies. all of them sung to him by her voice. all of them love songs.
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Love is a fist thrown hard enough to make every muscle from shoulder to wrist ache for hours after.
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