wake up to sun | amerika + elvaina; jb
Feb 1, 2016 21:48:00 GMT -5
Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Feb 1, 2016 21:48:00 GMT -5
ELVAINA ECKHART
wake up to sun 'cause morning does come
She gave me a violin and music lessons as a present with her savings, and I reprimanded her for it. I met her joy with tears- they ripped down my cheeks like liquid fire- and cast out her gift as a curse. It burned my eyes- I wanted to throw it on the ground and smash it into millions and millions and millions of pieces. (Just as Jequirity had.) "I know of your intentions, Amerika," I had said solemnly. "But there can never be another song." She convinced me otherwise, and I played.
And I played and I played and I played, just as Jequirity had. Music spilled out of me like the rain in the spring, but it was never good enough- it wasn't Jequirity's music. It died when her fingers went limp against the cords she had made in the dirt and breath peeled out of her shattered lungs. Nothing can bring her back, or them. These songs are mine, and I hate it- I want them to be her's. But there's a piece of her in me, in all of us, and the music Wolfsbane and I weave with the glide of a bow.
When Amerika gave me the violin, I reprimanded her, but now I am only filled with gratitude. "You say there can be no more songs, well, young lady, that's how she dies. That's the only true death." And she was right. I was just blinded my her blood and I was staring down my own heart broken on the floor.
People die, but they do not fade away. Jequirity died; she became pieces- a scar on my arm, a hole in our hearts, new music flooding the air. But I don't want Amerika to be just pieces. I don't want to see her in the stars, I want her on the earth. I don't want her to be silver against a black sky, I want her with a heartbeat.
No light crosses into the darkness of the waiting hall except for the sun burning in the sky. It bleeds its tears into the hall from the windows, filtered out by the blinds. I've been waiting and waiting and waiting, until one of the Peacekeepers nods at me, and gestures with a wave of an arm for me to pass through. I am submerged in silence. Not out of hostility or disrespect, but because I think my vocal cords broke the instance my screams faded beneath all the thick blood pooling in my mouth.
The Peacekeepers step aside, and my arms- I can hear the glass within them cracking- push open the doors. I do not run into the room, for I fear my knees may break.
"Amer-" the rest of the words die halfway off my tongue. It is a feeble croak, made rusty and calloused by the agony swelling in the back of my throat.
My hands reach out for hers, and I try to steady myself so I won't fall crashing to the ground- because I know I will shatter. (Glass girl, glass heart.)
"I don't want you to leave . . . I don't want you to die," and a tear breaks my flesh. "I want you to wake up to sun."
My chest caves in on itself.
"I don't want you to wake up to darkness."
(I don't want her to be just pieces.)
And I played and I played and I played, just as Jequirity had. Music spilled out of me like the rain in the spring, but it was never good enough- it wasn't Jequirity's music. It died when her fingers went limp against the cords she had made in the dirt and breath peeled out of her shattered lungs. Nothing can bring her back, or them. These songs are mine, and I hate it- I want them to be her's. But there's a piece of her in me, in all of us, and the music Wolfsbane and I weave with the glide of a bow.
When Amerika gave me the violin, I reprimanded her, but now I am only filled with gratitude. "You say there can be no more songs, well, young lady, that's how she dies. That's the only true death." And she was right. I was just blinded my her blood and I was staring down my own heart broken on the floor.
People die, but they do not fade away. Jequirity died; she became pieces- a scar on my arm, a hole in our hearts, new music flooding the air. But I don't want Amerika to be just pieces. I don't want to see her in the stars, I want her on the earth. I don't want her to be silver against a black sky, I want her with a heartbeat.
No light crosses into the darkness of the waiting hall except for the sun burning in the sky. It bleeds its tears into the hall from the windows, filtered out by the blinds. I've been waiting and waiting and waiting, until one of the Peacekeepers nods at me, and gestures with a wave of an arm for me to pass through. I am submerged in silence. Not out of hostility or disrespect, but because I think my vocal cords broke the instance my screams faded beneath all the thick blood pooling in my mouth.
The Peacekeepers step aside, and my arms- I can hear the glass within them cracking- push open the doors. I do not run into the room, for I fear my knees may break.
"Amer-" the rest of the words die halfway off my tongue. It is a feeble croak, made rusty and calloused by the agony swelling in the back of my throat.
My hands reach out for hers, and I try to steady myself so I won't fall crashing to the ground- because I know I will shatter. (Glass girl, glass heart.)
"I don't want you to leave . . . I don't want you to die," and a tear breaks my flesh. "I want you to wake up to sun."
My chest caves in on itself.
"I don't want you to wake up to darkness."
(I don't want her to be just pieces.)
if all you can rely on is the feel
