Two Eyes Cenote [m] Tea Party

They are women.

A tale as old as time.

To be repeated until dead.

They are women.

Legend is forced to listen.

Where those that did not want to listen lived in the diamond dust to tear the rest of their lungs. Days, ripped from hands and fingertips where it was only them. Where the world continued, and it was them.

Always them.

They are women.

Her eyes, they sewed the blurry lines between them to make a bridge. They made the room their own now. Eset found home here. But now she would never live here.

She mentioned Zaahira. Eset needed to say no more.

They are women.

The sickly twist in her throat, her own stomach eating itself into a cannibalism that she allowed return scarcely.

Eset had danced these moons away with laughter and the joyous extension of bountiful parties in shadow. With no sense of self. With no memory of love for your own skin. With the static noise of every second that your sense of self was taken playing in your head again, again, again. Until you were nothing.

They are women.

Legend hardened. She squinted, she looked away when she stopped.

Of course it would be Eset. Where the claws of Shuyet still raked her stomach. Where she was now ruined.

And Legend knew that being a survivor only meant so much when you would never be the same woman, girl, you once were. Eset spoke to her now as a husk.

Zaahira, mazoi, jodai, to blame as the rest now.

Legend felt bitter and cold. Someone she was so far from, and so close to, and so distant from, and so warm to, suffered the same story in different prose.

She should’ve known. Perhaps she did. Or that Legend chose to play in her own mind of fantasy and pleasure, and joy and lost, where she could repeat the familiarity she’d known. Something she could understand, and found comfort in, and affection in. But where Legend lived under the structure of this, she picked up the pieces of her disconnect and looked to the somber picture of Eset. 

There came a moment again, where she didn’t need to say more. She was fellahin.

Still a serf.

Still a slave to her own bones.

With blood she couldn’t escape.

And a home rewritten scarred.

But Legend knew.

And no one would know, but she hurt too as a devils child and imp blood. Because she didn’t understand.

They are women.

For Eset, there was the look of wolf. As people, and a person. And softness, and vulnerability. 

Nothing has changed.

“Tell me,” Legend pained to think, and she hated feeling such, to think at all, but she wished to know, “what the world has done for you.” Her chest and her heart, they were ill.