ah, but what becomes of a silly girl with a fistful of pages and circles beneath her eyes, when frost steals the breath of a window pane and moxie is only a drink? what happens to the cracked and bleeding lip and the taste of iron (and wine), the perpetual headache, the sanctuary of darkness beneath six blankets and a tiny space heater? such a silly girl, one with no right to act like she's next of kin, like the floorboards have fallen through, like things have been taken. /but look/ she says /look goddamnit these can't be the words of someone who didn't love me/ and maybe they're not but maybe they are. how many times has she sworn to let go and stop sounding lovesick and pathetic and victimized, tell me darling, how many times will she scribble down words with stupid fucking shaking fingers, always shaking like a stroke victim but the only damage done to her heart is the red-apple poison she keeps whispering to it, /it's all your fault you silly girl with your make believe and your inability to embrace possibility, i'm ravenous for your midnight delusion let me obliterate you let me out let me out let me/? those words don't mean anything, his nor hers because they chose what they did and this is the consequence, assumptions and slipshod footing into a friendship that doesn't exist save for the back and forth wit she feels fucking /guilty/ for wanting, it isn't fair at all because this wasn't how it was supposed to go and it's been a year, why can't she get over /anything/?
she'd talk but what will come from /i love him i loved him it isn't fair/ and angry, tired sentiments? don't write them, stop writing them, why does she insist on sinking and leaving fingerprint trails and maps of destruction when no one cares and no one wants to and the dead horse has seen enough carnage?
/that/ is what becomes of the silly girl prodding her wounds and dreaming lucid and terrible, false arms to make her happy and give her a glimpse of exactly what she wants but doesn't. /that/ is what happens to the silly girl afraid of hurting everyone for the wrong, selfish reasons because no one wants to wear the chainmail of guilt when all the links are broken and turned inwards and there's no arthur to pull the sword from your chest, guinevere, darling, and no one has been unfaithful because no one has ever been yours.
she'd talk but what will come from /i love him i loved him it isn't fair/ and angry, tired sentiments? don't write them, stop writing them, why does she insist on sinking and leaving fingerprint trails and maps of destruction when no one cares and no one wants to and the dead horse has seen enough carnage?
/that/ is what becomes of the silly girl prodding her wounds and dreaming lucid and terrible, false arms to make her happy and give her a glimpse of exactly what she wants but doesn't. /that/ is what happens to the silly girl afraid of hurting everyone for the wrong, selfish reasons because no one wants to wear the chainmail of guilt when all the links are broken and turned inwards and there's no arthur to pull the sword from your chest, guinevere, darling, and no one has been unfaithful because no one has ever been yours.
