- May 5, 2023
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It shows how much you loved him, some tell her, and she must fight the urge to claw at their muzzles. She wishes she had loved him less, then, if only to lessen the hurt.
. . . No, she doesn't. Not really.
She's just tired—so tired of missing him with every weary step, with every heartbeat that bleeds in the confines of her chest, of feeling as though old wounds might have finally begun to scab over, only for them to be torn open anew. They mar her back like wings ripped away, like something stolen; weeping crimson down her narrow ribs, bathing her in dark stains. She dips herself in harsh waters and comes away no cleaner, with the taste of bitter valerian lingering on her tongue.
She would term Johnnyflame a friend, and she was—is—happy to see him happy, no matter with whom. She had fled that night, returned late with clawed - up prey, and she flees now from the memory. The purity of their love had only cast her loss in darker relief, and to watch them press close had speared her through the chest, finding a new place for her to seep red. She is a blade except when she thinks of him, and then he blunts all her hard edges—in death he had stolen all the softness from the world, all the beauty, and the pittance that remains to her she destroys with her own paws.
Guilt weighs heavy, and she bears so much. She comes to earth slowly, a soft collapse, wishing she could let herself believe withering flowers and cool soil feel the same as warm golden fur.
" I miss you, " she whispers simply, letting tears trickle down her cheeks into the steady earth of his grave. White paws wrap around piled blooms in a pale imitation of an embrace. " A lot. "
