thousand eyes } . imogen/elvaina

Tonight, bathed in half starlight, half darkness, I do not play for Jequirity alone. I play to fill the void. I play for Jequirity, I play for Amerika, I play for me, for Wolfsbane, for Elettra, for Imogen, for Iridium, for the Eckharts. I play to mend the wounds, sputtering blood. I play to heal the mistakes I have made that left scars along the curves of my lips.

Bow against strings, I pour songs into the sky. They are prayers to the stars aligned, to Jequirity, to Hannah, to Saxton, to bring Amerika home. (And not in a box, with a beating heart.) I do not know if any ears are turned to me, after the mess I've made of my own heart and feelings, but I press the strings in prayer anyway.

I am not as talented as Jequirity was, yet, but someday I will be, and I think, when she hears me play, her smile in the stars will widen. One last song, I had promised- but I can't let Jequirity die. She will crumble if the skies sink into the clutches of silence, and I fear, with every broken little piece of me, that she will not watch from her perch upon the constellations any longer.

The violin rests beneath my chin. Even when I finish my song, I am stricken with fear to set it down. It's like I'm holding Jeq's hand and if I let it go, if I let it fall, I will be letting her go, all over again. I won't I won't I won't I can't I can't I can't-

shakily, I take it in my hands, and set it down on my bedside table. Beside it is a bottle of lipstick I bought at the market a few days before the reaping. I had meant to wear it on Reaping Day- it was supposed to be a milestone, the very first time I wore something as rare as makeup. But I had forgotten, and now it sits, collecting dust.

I drew phallic shapes on the wall with Frances, and I remember I laughed until my lungs ached. Perhaps it is silly shapes that can lift the grimness from my heart for just a moment. So I pick up the lipstick bottle and leave the lid rolling on the floor. Taking the pink tip, I smear it across the window. In its wake, it leaves fine magenta lines, forming an image of stick figures with violins resting in their arms, with stars and more phallic shapes above them.

A giggle is bred from the eccentric drawing, but it is not enough.

Nothing ever is.

UNDO THIS STORM, UNDO THIS STORM
UNDO THIS STORM AND WAIT
I CAN'T CONTROL WITHERING WONDERS
FLOWERS THAT LOSE THEIR SHAPE