( she waits for the rise of her righteous anger, or crippling embarrassment, or — anything she should feel, really. finds she's disappointed when nothing breaches topsoil, doesn't so much as accomplish more than tapping inside of its coffin door, pointlessly clawing to break free from where it's buried graveyard deep. )
I think ... it's helped me see you. Like if I look at you for longer than anyone else has, I'll know you like no one could. Like I'll know you in ways even you can't know yourself.
( it's no coincidence that her sketchbooks are her own private art gallery of paul atreides, in various character studies. at peace while he sleeps — too rare for alina not to have penciled it. the concentrated divot between his brows, etched there by a book in his lap. his bright smiles, like a comet event — meant to be seen, in case you don't see it again for a hundred years. the parts of his body that have taken care of her best: calloused hands, puppy-love eyes, dimpled smiles. a thousand hidden words and secrets in every brushstroke, every penciled line.
everything she can't draw, now. not just because her enjoyment of anything has turned non-existent, but — for fear that anything she creates will feel tainted, in the aftermath of what's been done to them. in the aftermath of what she's done, above all. )
Edited (jk i hated the flow of this tag so im editing it twice dont kill me pls ) 2024-11-06 05:23 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
1/2
I think ... it's helped me see you.
Like if I look at you for longer than anyone else has, I'll know you like no one could.
Like I'll know you in ways even you can't know yourself.
( it's no coincidence that her sketchbooks are her own private art gallery of paul atreides, in various character studies. at peace while he sleeps — too rare for alina not to have penciled it. the concentrated divot between his brows, etched there by a book in his lap. his bright smiles, like a comet event — meant to be seen, in case you don't see it again for a hundred years. the parts of his body that have taken care of her best: calloused hands, puppy-love eyes, dimpled smiles. a thousand hidden words and secrets in every brushstroke, every penciled line.
everything she can't draw, now. not just because her enjoyment of anything has turned non-existent, but — for fear that anything she creates will feel tainted, in the aftermath of what's been done to them. in the aftermath of what she's done, above all. )