xxii.
i want to be
your first fire:
i want to be the first lick
of flame upon your naked wrist,
setting your veins alight with
blue fire, cool paralysis.
my heat will seep into the
bloodlines beneath your cheeks,
split into the inflamed whisperings
of my name under your skin;
itching, aching, burning, scarred.
i want you to feel the trembling
premonition of dried heat under
heavy eyelids, and be afraid
of how i did consume you.
(h.a)
what you're allowed to do.
1. take as many photographs of yourself as you’d like. you’re beautiful, even if your eyes tells you otherwise.
2. kiss as many people as you’d like to. your lips weren’t labeled with a sign of restriction.
3. tell as many people as you’d like that you love them. there is no such thing as a short supply of love. and if anyone tells you that it’s wrong to love more than one person, they were wrong when that first letter left their selfish lips.
4. wear whatever you want. if your dress is too short, or if your shirt is too tight, who gives a damn! your body is your own temple, and no one else is able to tell you what’s right or wrong when it comes to your own skin.
5. defend yourself. there is nothing, and will never be anything wrong with protecting your name. if you don’t, who will?
6. if you can, laugh at everything and anything. your muscles will feel at ease when you show them that it’s okay to hurt from happiness.
they told me that you don’t know how much you miss someone until they’re gone, but i think i’ve proved that theory wrong. it was easier to let go with an ignorant smile and a peaceful goodbye, knowing only the trembling preface to a longing deep within my bones. the tracks people once filled hang quiet and unmoving in the air after they leave, but i learnt to manoeuvre around them so i didn’t get tangled, to pick through the traces they left so they wouldn’t burnt my skin when i brushed against them. people will fade, if you allow them to. time will take care of their memories for you, collecting their imprints from your skin in your sleep and stealing them away like dust, left beneath your pillowcase in the morning light. you don’t know how much you miss someone until you get them back, until they come and unearth everything once more, marking lines across your skin, raw and fresh. you don’t know how much you miss someone until your fingers remember how to hold them, like stumbling through a children’s rhyme you once knew by heart, picking the syllables of a clumsy sentence apart until it’s crisp on the tip of your tongue. you don’t know how much you miss someone until you get them back, and have to let go again, with aching fingers and a sore heart that knows the true price of a second goodbye.
And as she cried he held her. He felt it was his duty not to move until the tidal waves of tears stopped crashing against his shoulder and her sadness faded, even just momentarily. As she wept softly in his arm he seemed sad, the girl he loved was breaking in front of him and it seemed there was nothing he could do. He held her for over half an hour in silence before deciding finally upon something to say ‘its going to be okay, I love you, I’m going to make it okay,’ he promised her and squeezed her gently in his arms. He heard her sniffle as the tears seemed to have stopped. she lifted her head and silently just planted the softest of kisses on his lips before lying against him and closing her eyes, wanting to sleep with him, disappear from reality for a while and feel his arms protecting her from nightmares, to leave the sadness behind.
Well, the person who normally works with newly-deceased Donald Westerly on his Thursday night bartending shifts is working — surprise surprise — tomorrow on Thursday, so that means Dean is now needlessly dressed in a suit and at a bar with Cas, waiting on Sam’s news from the morgue, while tonight’s bartender is making bedroom eyes at Cas.
“Definitely a wraith, though,” he mutters under his breath to Cas, taking a sip of whiskey. “An entry wound like that?”
“A kitsune would have produced a similar mark,” Cas reminds him snidely, and knocks back the entirety of his (seventh) drink in one go. Dean cringes.
