She pieces you together all slow, steady hands stitching ugly wounds, binding your halves with careful precision. It hurts, it hurts but you lay still, gills gasping open and shut, open and shut as she knits sinew and flesh, twisting and tugging until you can pretend you're whole again, until you can pretend you're not broken any more. It's a fragile lie you feed yourself, slumped up against her side as her needles click, as angels wheel and screech overhead.
You trail after her on legs that don't feel like your own, on legs that feel stiff and dead, your waist wrapped tight in case you unravel. Your steer clear of your memories, you don't want to show her and anyway, you suspect she already knows. She accepts you for the things you've done and pities you for what you could have been and somehow that hurts worse than the constant ache in your middle. You pick through her life instead, you haunt the corners of her room and bury ghost fingers in yarn as she knits, knits, purls, dainty hands deftly crafting simple beauty and all you ever did was destroy.
You don't know where she goes when she's not dreaming. You sit cross-legged in the floor of her bedroom and wait, watching blood seep across your wrappings, remembering the whir of the engine, the flash of silver as you were cleaved in two, until she comes again.
She doesn't say a word, just presses her lips together, unwinding your stained and tattered scarf to replace it with another, tyrian purple and the shade makes you sick, but it's soft against your clammy skin, and it smells just like her, and you wish you could ask her to stay.
FILL: TEAM DAVE<3TEREZI
You trail after her on legs that don't feel like your own, on legs that feel stiff and dead, your waist wrapped tight in case you unravel. Your steer clear of your memories, you don't want to show her and anyway, you suspect she already knows. She accepts you for the things you've done and pities you for what you could have been and somehow that hurts worse than the constant ache in your middle. You pick through her life instead, you haunt the corners of her room and bury ghost fingers in yarn as she knits, knits, purls, dainty hands deftly crafting simple beauty and all you ever did was destroy.
You don't know where she goes when she's not dreaming. You sit cross-legged in the floor of her bedroom and wait, watching blood seep across your wrappings, remembering the whir of the engine, the flash of silver as you were cleaved in two, until she comes again.
She doesn't say a word, just presses her lips together, unwinding your stained and tattered scarf to replace it with another, tyrian purple and the shade makes you sick, but it's soft against your clammy skin, and it smells just like her, and you wish you could ask her to stay.