what's left of me
˚ ・ . ¸ ¸ . ¤¨ ˚ ・ . ¸
Kairi (Naminé) finds herself eyeing the blade.
She dips the cotton ball into the bottle of ammonia, swipes away at the chipped cerises of the finger polish. Senses smothered, her indigo (heaven-blue) gaze lingers on the razor, silver and pristine, resting just out of her reach, across from the pretty pink bottles and creams. The thoughts running through the not-girl’s not-mind are enough to make bile rise up and taint the mouth of her other, the true owner of this shared life.
Shared being a lose term. Naminé (NaminéNaminé -- the name is fading, almost as empty as it‘s possessor) took a bullet in the form of a heart; the promise of being whole again. But it all ended up as a beautiful, beautiful lie; none of it came true. No dances along the ocean with her prince (the one with sun-kissed spikes; spun like gold), no more layered canvases that burst with what she could never say out loud. Only shy smiles and chocolate-haired boys and a cascade of cranberry waves; none of which included the flaxen nobody.
She has a speck of a heart now, in return for her lost sense of self. Nobody, nobody ,nobody; she’d always known the word (how it would drip lifelessly from her tongue!), but it wasn’t until she was bound to Kairi that she found out what it truly meant; how it felt.
(it felt like nothing.)
And she so desperately wants out of this shell she’s been encased in; the body of a girl that was not her. To slice the flesh in two; tear the frame away and escape.
(you can’t always get what you want.)
If she had feeling, she would cry out: “Why couldn’t I be the real one?”
But instead Naminé (whatever is left of the nothing she was) remains numb, from the inside of her illusory self and out; all she can do is stare at the sharp, metallic edge. The knife to her freedom, to the crystal linn of Roxas’ eyes, to the strokes of the paintbrush, and to the (not) life she left behind. It would never happen, and she’d only end up hurting her (not?) self.
(“let me out!” naminé’s screams echo to only herself; bottled up in the nonentity of her soul.)
But, if nobodies had anything at all, they were able to dream.
(set me F R E E.)