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12-19-2015, 12:14 AM
we are one in the same, brother dearest
We wake from our damnation, rising like kings to our rightful thrones we take hold of the weakness of our vessel. Like powerful foes we combat for our place in rule, high and mighty with our crowns askew and grins wider than the moon's. What pride we hold blossoms, egos budding like spring flowers as we steal the chance for control. It is a celebration, a time for glee as we stir from our eternal slumber, dazed but held together by strings of misty recollection and this cherished bond we hold.
We remain foreign to this body, our first words unspoken and first steps still yet to be taken as the adjustment continues. We are aliens in a planet so disgustingly unkempt, the smell of plague meeting our nostrils like soldiers to war, gagging at how sickening this stench is. It brings a sour taste to our mouth, something foul and unsatisfying that lingers there in our throats and makes us whine at the sensation of disease curdling away at our flesh.
Our eyes meet someone who captures beauty in a foreign way, but one we would not dabble into. No, she is a fruit soured and chained to a beast most unruly, worn eyes and worry written over champagne hide. What she has to offer is sorrow and distaste, things we do not seek in lovers nor friends. We are perfectly content intertwined together, sharing space and letting our minds and souls overlap in harmony. We enjoy the intimacy of our closeness, yet long for the subtlety of two bodies skin to skin with our breath rolling over our shoulders and our lips tracing familiar flesh. She intrigues us, the way she wears herself and displays vulnerability to our skin, leaving us to analyse whom she is and for who she stresses. We part lips, giving our words a quick run to begin once again our endless banter.
"We too want to know the mystery,""the secret to these foreign pains—""Self inflicted, brother. Observe—" We reach forward, one voice deep and brilliantly confident (Zekì) while the other is subtle and raspy, less forceful and more intellectual (Kye), pitch changing each time we pass off. Our eyes cast down upon the wounds, taking note of the months of suffering that are etched into the permanence of this exposed pink tissue. "How far must one go to do such damage? From where must this hatred root?" Our eyes turn to the blue-eyed lamb, curious and full of a craving for answers as our mind spirals into unanswerable questions. They branch out, scratching away at the ivory casing of our shared intelligence while we ponder the state of our chestnut figure and its feminine curvature. "Giving up, look at this mange—""—simply the worst. We smell as bad as—""A rotting corpse yes, yes." Vigorous nodding ensues, ears perked and eyes closed to emphasize the understanding of the statement at hand. This casual conversation flows seamlessly between us, no gaps to our sentences as we look up questionably towards the fair coated woman. What could she tell, if anything at all. Our need to know why such injuries battered our skin was the elephant beside us at this point in time, obvious and present and needy for attention as we look down upon our breast. Two piercings linger, a head's width apart, oozing with fluid that reeks of corpses and unhygienic months. One remains deeper than the other, giving us proof that the attack was from an angle, wounds still open to infection and destruction of the skin and flesh.
"Who have we fought? I do not recall—""Any battles from us. None won, lost or participated in. Assault? A sneak attack we never saw.""It hurts, and this foul smell! I cannot stand—""this stench. Unclean, we are." We shift our gaze to the mare, stepping back as we realize the close proximity between us and her, this sensory overload had distracted us from the threat of the speared damsel that continued to linger. We had no words to offer her, simply sympathetic smiles that one would bring to the forefront of their features when passing a pitiful fool upon the roadside.
"Kye begins.."".. and Zekì ends."
@Sikeax
