Peculiar, Damian Wayne

i mourn a girl that never was.

. کمک

how does a garden become a graveyard ?
you bury a peculiar girl's heart in its soil.

❪ peculiar ❫
𝒏. something odd and strange, almost in an unpleasant manner. unnatural, if you will- reminiscent of a hollow girl, eyes dark and hands unblemished, draped in torn lace and ruddy satin and bloodied pearls; cadaverous luxury to mar the absence of soul. of heart.

a peculiar soul tastes of rotted blood, you learn as it crawls down your throat, sinks into your lungs and tears that tender flesh apart in it's urgency to reach your heart. an organ that gives a phantom twitch, a prickle you feel underneath your hammering pulse, as the parasite- for what is another soul to a vessel already bearing one if not a hindrance?- presses its talons against you. tenderly at first, before it sinks into flesh.

something aches inside you.

only, it is not yours. your ache, that raw, torn-heart sting is buried somewhere beneath bodies upon bodies upon bodies of nameless, faceless people you are yet to mourn. the parasite spreading its roots in your being, that is what aches. all of its ancient hurt seeping into you, intertwining with your soul where you had come unravelled.

a lifetime of mourning settles into you at the beat of a pulse.

you mourn the sun beating down on your skin, wiping away sweat trickling down your brow with the back of an even sweatier hand. you mourn the prickle of sand beneath your feet, nights spent peering into a sky dusted with stars. you mourn a boy with calloused palms and face that mirrors yours, except it's not yours.