You grow up rough and the angels try to spit on you.
You grow up angry and the moment you touch the sea, everything burns, it hits your body like a sore.
You are no one but your own. You are metal in the mouth of everyone you love,
She is so small.
You are a finned, swimming disaster and you do not wonder that she doesn't flush for you.
You can feel her crushed in your fingers, but you make your eyes soft and your hands untwitching.
You are going to cut her hair and make her cry.
You grow and you tint darker, you want to bruise her and braid her hair, you want to cut her tongue out and keep her happy.
Vriska understands, Vriska wants these things, but not from you.
Vriska is a spear, her face edging into her sharp chin like a mewl beast.
Vriska is your own countenance, smirking, bright, angry, but so much better. She gets who she wants.
You just put holes in them.
You leave the water and you are heavy again, substance in the heart you doubt you have.
You wring land dwellers neck just to feel special to someone. Their blood and bites thrash your clothing, Fef will late sew.
"Pity, pity." She sighs, an exasperated mother.
"Are you wwaxin black for me, boy?" You whisper in their ears when they bite the skin of your knuckles off.
You lay your head in her lap and dream of destruction, the sea lulling you, her hand calloused and gentle on your crooked horn.
You are very sick and the things you do, are like throwing up thick, black bile.
You get that hot, hurt feeling in your throat at all the wrong things.
Fef's ankles rising under her frothy skirt, the way Vris gets combs stuck in her hair, the piece of opal you embedded into the land dwwellers head. Actually the latter was probably the right time to feel it, but never mind.
You love her so much its in all your music, and you are so black it chars the things you touch.
You reach for her, but you know you will burn her to the tips of her nails.