Home

The taste of granite flushed her mouth,
Felt like brittle sand between her teeth,
And she grimaced harshly,
Blaming the crust on her teeth for her situation.
Her knuckles cracked as she pulled her hands into fighting fists,
Her heart beat sung cruelly in her ears as she stared,
Black eyes dancing in unanswered danger,
At the large looming presence in front of her.

She could die,
Truly die, splat, gone, disappeared,
Wind howling with her absence,
Never to be seen again.
And she didn't know how to feel about that,
Was undecided,
Twisted and curled and gnarled in darkened thoughts,
Couldn't quite wrap her fragile mind around reality.

She was walking,
Back and force, pacing with side stepped tracked expectancy,
Eyelashes swaying like whiskers in the wind,
Cold eyes opened and ready to see the end, the coast to her city.
Her feet clacked like a horse's hoof beneath her,
Her shoes, never cleaned, smelt quite similar to a horse too,
Musty, sweaty, *****, filled with unleashed stench,
But she did not plug her nose.

The smell was hers to disgust on,
She embraced it.

She tucked stray hairs behind her angled and alert ears,
Letting calloused and shredded hands do such a gentle action seemed wrong,
As if they only mimed the part they were meant to fit,
Even though they had been her hands for as long as her hands existed.
Her eyes raised slowly, in key with the slow moving sunrise,
She gazed in mesmerised and petrified wonder,
At the unveiling scene of terrified beauty before her,
It didn't seem real.

She dropped her arms in shock and amazement,
The two falling tactlessly beside her sides with the agility of a ragdoll,
She found herself walking on slightly bent legs,
Towards the glorious picture.
A child, no older than four,
Demon eyes the colour of the blood,
And silver hair the colour of the moon's reflection on the sea,
Lifted out a curious arm with gentle innocence.

The child was not normal,
Though neither was she with her black eyes and doomed expression,
They fitted together, their palms folding like two clashing pieces, and slotted seamlessly,
She had thought her hands would fall off if they ever touched another.

Why was this boy so special,
And why did she not hate him for it?

She lifted him into her arms with a maternal grace she had never understood,
Tugged him close until his small plump face rested on her clothed chest,
Could hear his gentle and fragile heartbeat thumping softly against her squished torso,
Banging harmlessly against her ribcage.
She felt tiny hands play with her straight locks of hair,
Running fingers through the tragic art of her style,
Sniffing the smell of unwashed hair,
Of unbathed pale skin exposed to the elements.

The little boy's nose did not wrinkle as expected,
He did not appear to think she smelt of horse like her shoes.

The little boy smelt of woodchips, of forests, cooked chicken, and clean air,
He was far too precious for her to be holding,
But she couldn't seem to let go,
Not once she had him.
He brought his butterfly soft lips to her ear,
Gently brushing hair away from the opening,
And whispered softly, as if he had no idea how glorious the words were,
Against her shoulder and into her heart.

“I'm home, right?”

He rolled the words over his tongue,
Tasting them like fine wine,
As if he could not believe them himself,
And she could only hold him tighter.