She took the things that she loved and destroyed them.
She was relentless in her despair, like a bullet ripping apart flesh. She thought of herself as a monster – always hurting and incapable of cherishing. At times, she could sense the coldness, the misery of her soul, as something tangible. There was nothing human about her, she liked to think; nothing but a soul left too often trembling and afraid.
Only if someone could have told her that all people are lonely and bruised at heart ; that loving the bones that sustain you is enough; that she only needed someone to kiss the blood on her knuckles and to listen to the ghosts aching in her chest.
I have rot between my ribs and an emptiness to swallow me whole, she told him.
What do you want ? he whispered.
To sink my claws into something alive and beating. To make it mine.
And, that night, and the ones that followed, he sung her lullabies. He laid in front of her, vulnerable, hands upturned, so she could see the shadow of his bruises. She could have wounded him so easily, with just a snap of her fingers, as she tore many others. But his soft voice and tender heart spoke to her rotten core.
How can you love a monster when you don’t know what’s capable of ? she asked.
He looked into the darkness of her eyes, the darkness of herself, and smiled.
I’d let you break my heart all the same. Then we’d both be broken.