there is a deep suffering in your bones,
a clawing ache in your chest.
it’s a kind of un-becoming—
like heartstrings unthreading themselves,
like a faded whisper that never makes it
past your trembling lips.
and you can’t help but feel that
there is something strangely familiar
in the art of disappearing.
that girl isn’t fire, or steel, or ice;
she is the warmth of morning rays,
the softness of freshly-spun silk,
and the slow ebb of gentle rainfall.
her edges aren’t jagged and sharp like yours,
but smooth and rounded; a stone unmarred
by the cruelties of a world that would fashion it
into a weapon, into a monster.
she is no warrior, but something far more rare.
those beautiful eyes have seen the ugliest things
within you, and she has never looked away.
those delicate hands cradled your heart,
never minding the threatening thorns it bore.
she could have crushed it, could have broken it,
could have held it hostage or torn it apart.
instead, she brought it up to her lips and kissed,
smiling with blood running down her chin:
‘if you are made of thorns my dear,
then i will be your flower petals—’