"She has to hold you back from leaping into them headfirst, has to keep you down on your knees until the fire dies down, until it starts to rain and the embers hiss, and you are stumbling out of her grip, you are rooting through the still-smoldering wood for some trace of him, there’s snot running down your face and why does it always have to be him, why is he always the one to write the blank check, why is he always the one who ends up getting hurt because the rest of you are too young and stupid to stay out of trouble -
- you are so sorry, you are so sorry for every time you made fun of him, you’re sorry for every time you teased him for insisting you had to getstronger, you’re so fucking sorry, you are sorry his head is a battlefield he can’t escape, and you are especially sorry that he ever had any reason to fear you would discard him like garbage.
You are rooting through ash when you find it: the size of your fist, a lump of metal that would not melt.
It’s his heart.”
- ‘a thousand years’, by venusian_eye