#threadbeast

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Gentle one, with your golden blood, Reach to the sea, and soak your paws, Salt water on mending wounds, Sand in the crevice of your heart.

Watch the currents take your ichor, The little lights glowing within, Birds screaming above as you stay, Oh, so transfixed.

the only currently colored images of the threadbeast and ribbonbeast i have are if they were monsters in delicious in dungeon 😭 tbf it was really funny (also! sad.) how my sister explained it.

Together sit two, wrapped in thread and ribbon, Flaring wings and gentle eyes, claws to tear, Basking in the twilight shadow and mist, Awaiting the fall of night to day.

Swatting her tail, the ribbonbeast stretches, Lazy in her movement, in her words, ‘You know the best places to lay.’ She says, A bed of flowers crushed to her fur.

‘I know the places you would like.’ says her sister, Detangling the thread that has wound their paw, And their sister tilts her head, curious as ever. It is true, her sister knows much of her, Truer still that they know more than she does.

Yet, a challenge is presented, and she grins. ‘How would you know of me?’ asks the ribbonbeast, And her sister, meek despite the size of their paws, Replies with a confidence she had not seen from them, Not for a very long time.

‘I have known you before you were made,’ They tell her, ‘I would know you in the dark, know you were you not you, You are part of me, and I, part of you; How could I not Know my heart, where it beats?’ the threadbeast replies.

It is true, she knows, her sister knows her like a mirror Knows what it reflects, like the moon knows the sky, But she thinks back to days past, and she speaks, ‘You have not always treated me like you know me.’

This, as well, is true, and there the threadbeast winces, As if struck by a snake, curling in on themself, with a frown. ‘No,’ They agree, ‘I have not - Were I able to take back those years, Where I treated you like a stranger, like an enemy, I would.’

‘It was a tragedy,’ Her sister told them, ‘It ached, worse still, I thought you hated me. Were you to take it back, though, I think perhaps we would not be the same.’ She assures them, Though the words seem to soothe nothing.

Claws digging into earth, and ears pinned back flat, Nose crinkled, and head low, the threadbeast speaks again, Voice quivering and wet, ‘I would trade that, I think, My own solace in your heart, for peace in your past.’

Their paws cover their face, ‘It was unfair, of me; You were a child, My heart made whole, and I could not see it, too blinded by my Own need to destroy myself - Selfish, I was.’ Their sister watched, and soon, she lay against the flowers, Wings stretching as she stared at her sister.

The stains of color bled against her fur, and she reached out, Claws retracted as she paws aimlessly at her sister’s shoulder, ‘But, weren’t you a child too?’ She asks, ‘Hurt, and scared? Who would not hate their own heart, staring when they are small?’

Children, plural, though often forgotten - One grows up too fast When they have a soul carrying burdens untold, Not a child anymore, not whole, no matter how downy their wings; Children, the both of them, with soft claws and spots on their hide.