goodbye.

     heroes of what; what had been saved? dispelling the darkness was but death unblemished; you are bad so you must end ———- was that how it goes? a hero would have saved him ( will you ever do away with this idea any piece of you is salvageable? ); a hero would carry their burdens, wouldn’t they? then what was this weight upon his back, this insatiability that tore him asunder? he made the path for them both to the realize their purpose. tremulous and barely managing, he made it to the end ————– wanting the end and yet . . ‘ i was made from weakness, from worthlessness. i fostered it to strength. ’ aggressively placed but almost beseechingly, desperately; as though it was a sole redeeming factor she dare overlook. ’ don’t confuse me with your vulnerability. ’

‘ you really don’t know anything. ’

            Something singes at her artificial spine, halting the slow work of her machinery --- if only briefly.  Anger, maybe, or something close to it sparks at the other’s dismissal of her and of her hurt, but it is lost quickly.  Fictitious heroine is naught but a broken toy, after all, a poor vessel for memories and for sense and even, for anger.  All that remains within her cavernous ribcage is the sense of glass - like fragility; the loneliness of knowing they will be okay and you will not be there to love them when they are.  And kindness; the desire to do good.  Herself, that, or merely a clinging remnant of what she was made from --------- oh them?  Of him?  She doesn’t know.  She is frightened of the answer.

                                  “For all your strength and all my vulnerability, we’re both here.”

                    A pause; her fingers tangle before her form.  She knows the fear that can make you cruel.  She knows the hurt that can make you into nothing.  She knows, and she would not wish it on another.