His eyes are tired opiates the color of the sky. He touched you gently, but in you he is like ink, cheap oil filling the vacuum of your eye sockets. He stayed inside even when you stopped remembering β his imprint on the inside of the skin was left by a heavy shoe.
His palms are burned into you, a brand, an old scar that cannot be removed with boiling water. You spread your shoulder blades for the last jump, but even the feathers were broken. When Griffith broke your bones, what was he looking for and how much did he find in the end? He found God-fearing devotion in you, found love and his reflection.
He found everything and destroyed everything. And the fire is still in your blood.
Flowers are better than blades, but iron has taken root in you. You accepted his daggers with gratitude, and dislike still saved you. You were stuck in memories that no longer matter, you were wrong again, not knowing how to get out, on old tombstones and shaggy bumblebee backs, it's easy to shout for help, but who will hear? You want to live without the executioner behind back, without the dying promise of death, want to live and want to live without Griffith on your skin.
You didn't stick a thousand blades in his back, but you know he would have done it to you without a second thought. The pieces of the cold blades are still in your flesh. He walked over ribs with his feet, almost lovingly, saying that there were fragments of stars hidden in you, but then pulled them out himself.
"A nebula forming stars.. If you're ready, I want to make you tremble." Griffith's voice is sweet as always, but at the same time cold. The first tartness of his words hung in the air, remained around, on his lips. And that's why his hands sting. His hands burn, embrace, squeeze, destroy.
The purple bindweed has blossomed, even though you knew it would wither in the end anyway. You've never had love in you.