fistful of sound


i swear, leaving things this way is just fine
so please set me free with the tips of your fingers

( the street corner where even lovers are drenched )

THE SNOW REMINDS HER OF Jötunheimr but it is not so bleak, not so dark. But still the memories come, lining her mouth with bitter patina and the golden-veined daughter of the shining world of battlements resists the urge to spit, not wanting to see the color of that humiliation.

Once, she had followed two princes into the heart of battle. Only one returned and the events that followed changed every single one of them.

She had a piece missing, ever since. Something not quite herself was placed between her ribs, her wrists and tried to make a home within her. She did not allow it. 

Her eyes went too wide, she heard too much or not enough and she felt more KEEN than she had in years. She felt as if the entire structure of what she knew as certainty would crumble, wet sand, at the slightest touch.

This is why she takes these periods of solitude, be it on Midgard or wherever the throne should need her.

Boots sink into the snow and she resists the urge to let out a scream.

It didn’t make sense anymore - not like it used to.

AND YOU’RE TURNING BLACK TABLES / @paramounticebound