#yashma

In a ravaged town, debris sticking out like broken bones, we were growing up holding hands.

(Yashma grabbed my palms in a lock, fingers curling around any warmth she can get; Jazmey held my wrists in a grip, push and pull of his kind, sometimes too tightly.)

Familiar faces, all blending together, were mistaking us for each other so evenly and lovingly that we ended up sharing one name.

(Me and her were no more – never were – we, us, twins of dirty streets born out of what once was, throat dry and sleep scarce, no desire to argue left, as long as we remembered ourselves.)

When we turned four and then some, a group of cultists found my summoned thrall enchanting - but fooled by us unwittingly, as everyone was, they watched not me when they took us in.

(A kindness of stranger and a silence of brother she had to repay with spell binding rituals. They called it ‘spiritual’ and ’sacred‘. Her forehead skin marked by smouldering fingertips, festering constellation making her cry every night in pain, I matched with a moon on mine. She never summoned a demon since then.)

We were twice that age when we escaped and found shelter in a monastery – they took both of us in kindly.

(But I got a dress hem with a pattern of birds and his robes were as dark, as the shadow on him.)

Despite all, through years and trials, they thought us to be the same.

(He started cutting his hair short and escaping lessons more often. When lying on grass away from the buildings, someone mistook him to be me.)

We took as many different roads as we could – one was letting the dead go, one was bringing them back.

(She was brushing her long hair back and ceremonial robes of silk and embroideries were tightening on her more and more with every dance. Yet when the dusk would come, some still called her my name.)

Sounding staff finial and the shoes too small – her face was painted to be a bride for those dead and gone.

(Yet the living desired to steal her from her service and when she escaped I disappeared too.)

North is unforgiving and insatiable – it painted his skin paper white, made his body into a see through glass, a temple of regret and unfinished beginnings.

(My greatest fear was – I will have to dance for him.)

Following the path seen on the border of dreams, we met in the land of living.

(Jazmey came to on the third day.)

I’d prefer her to break and she wants me to bend

It’s my knife tip and daybreak that are coming to end

He is starting anew, I bring all dust to dust

But it’s his knife that is breaking, edges covered in rust

It’s my dance growing slower, it’s his hands getting cold

We are taking our turns growing frail and old.

He is smirk and a jeer, I'm compassion and frown

But in dawn, and in dusk, and in nights yet to come

I'll be dancing for you to return to our home

To wherever I'm lost from wherever you roam.

She is step of the spirits, I am cry of unwilled

One of us will be killed...

its been 84 years!! i cant believe ive been memed by the game.