![]() ![]() His hands are occupied, unwilling to give up what they hold, so he tilts his head to rest upon the offered hand, holding it in place. is…"Ī hand falls to his shoulder, a silent comfort offered, and he can't count on one hand anymore how many times his other half has reached out, only to be shoved away each time. Because if it's true, then everything I believe is. He can't let it continue, he can't let it grow bigger, grow out of hand. I was wrong about everything, and all I did was make it worse. Your parents didn't love me, the way they did you. He pauses over the reopened wound, old and newly rent, freshly bleeding. More blood oozes, drips with tears, splattering to the ground. There's a sob around them, and he's not sure who's chest it comes from. "Because I made some of these wounds." He regrets them, but not enough not to touch them, to trace their paths, to hear again raised voices, dim memories of painful words, of physical hurts and emotional stress. He looks back down at the thing in his hands, smaller, beating slower, but still alive. "Why?" The question is wet, and echoes with all of the times before that it's been raised. he wishes he knew how to fix this heart, even though he was just learning how to mend his own. It hurts to hear, and not just because it pulses in time to the fall of silver tears. Leave it on the bedrock, or throw it into the void. Wet eyes turn away, a back turned to him and his item. It's still healing, it just needs to be taken care of." He opens his fingers, cradles the heart like he would an end crystal, aware of both its beauty and its power, all while knowing that it is useless without obsidian to place it on. "I don't believe you." There is too much hurt and desperation for it to be true, and his eyes haven't left the still-pulsing thing in his hands. "It hurt others, and I can't live with that. "It's worse than worthless," comes the dismissal. "No love is worthless, especially not yours." "It's not." He doesn't know why they're here, when they've flipped roles, or why he had become the voice of reason. It's his own voice, but not his thoughts, and his fingers tighten until he can feel the heart beat beneath them. "It's worthless, you should throw that away." He cups his hands around the precious thing he holds, meager protection as he turns towards the sound, the presence beside him. Two halves left to create a whole, to learn to heal from each other, instead of hurt. He thinks that if he pulled his own heart out and set them together, they would look the same. It had betrayed itself, rent itself at the pain and longing, self-inflicted damage that continued to tear and eat away at healthy tissue. Betrayal.įresh blood wells from the wound, too much strength behind the feeling. It falls open as he turns it over again, and his own heart pulses in sympathy at the deep stab wound that nearly splits it in two. Chunks torn away, as friends were lost, or left, only scars left from time to mourn their absence. Scabbed wounds from the same, little hurts that were smoothed over, bruises from worries, from words taken out of context, anxieties that healed only slowly. ![]() Stretch marks show where it's grown, from new joys, adulthood loves and pleasure, new friends and found family adopted. A tear that runs deep, from family lost, freshly reopened and starting to fester. And notes the damage, the scar tissue, the rents that have healed and those poorly sealed over.Ĭhildhood hurts form silver lines, tiny pockmarks long healed. He turns it over in his hands, carefully, aware of its fleeting nature, its fragility. Scarred and damaged, it beats like the afterthought of a noteblock, a tick behind its redstone signal. The heart beats, slow, methodical, routine. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Details
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |