˙⊹ ੈ✰[ you're starting to rot from the inside out]✰ ੈ⊹˙
╰┈➤ ੈ✩‧₊˚ ✩‧₊˚
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♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀ ╰┈➤ ❝a burnt child loves the fire.❞
This very day would be her beginning, a rebirth of sorts. A shedding of old life, a skin of dismay slipping over aching bones and bruised knees. And ever faithfully hanging for her eternity in a closet where her lives now exist, an unkept mess of carcasses. But without each and every one, Morana Lisbon would scarcely retain the fragility she called sanity.
The rain began and with it came a girl.
A girl so very ready to hurl the fear she held in her palms, and lay it at the doorstep of the man who made it. But his eyes lay so close to her, the seldom fear their company harnessed. A bed for two, but sheets made to fit only one body.
The sweet whispering lull of his voice in the dark, when in turn he feared she may stir. Quiet words he ushered to a subdued and ambivalent Morana cocooned, within all he may have to offer.
Those were the dainty moments in purity he held to, that clandestine sleep he barely participated in, but spectated in the most blissful sight he could bare.
Somewhere he knew words she held could shatter his moments of cotton leadened conversations, but those words hadn't fallen and so yet he hadn't either. The pleading lay at his feet, or maybe the pair of them held a duty to the other to spill and bare their souls to a sweet devouring innocence.
An innocence they called each other.
A beautiful tragedy lay in prophecies to come, boredom laced in succinct awe. Their downfall was to be burnt into the bones of all who dared to feel. But the only hearts cursed to love and damned for hell would be their own.
In cloud she was wrapped up and sent adrift, walking into the moon and awaiting the stranger she called home.
A man so oblivious he'd reflect the stars that shone within her eyes. A pair of dusk and cosmos just brimming into brutality, so much so they couldn't bare to look one another in the face of remorse.
She knew where a shadow may hunt, and that was exactly where her words lay.
Leaden entrails of night led her into theft, brooding amongst the filthy capacity that encompassed Gotham. Hate was burning through every pair of eyes, in the same rugged mirror.
A spark lay against her chest, heaving when the quizzical upright torso antagonised within a dreary illiterate morality, that lay beckoning on his shoulders.
