thorns

chlohoh:

There was still blood on the wolf-pelt around her shoulders,

red and wet, like a whores first kiss bought and paid for

 with a steel smile.

The knife was warm in her hand.

 –

Her father looked up with eyes wide as the moon,

the whites swallowing him whole.  The fear

was strong in him, and she could smell it in the dark,

a sour perfume.

 –

“Daughter, how could you do this thing?” his gaping mouth

implored her. He belonged on his knees,

like a beggar. Belle had robbed him of his honour.

 –

“My sisters let me in,” she said, careful to smile. He’d always

liked her teeth, compared them to pearls.

She tossed her head, let the moonlight catch

in her dark curls.

 –

“I raised you to be a good girl.”

 –

Good? The word tasted foreign on her tongue,

a starburst from the forgotten language of a frightened ghost

which chafed like shackles around a thin wrist.

Belle remembered how it felt to be sold.

 –

“I shed my skin, grew another,

honed my pretty smiles,

and became a hunter.”

 –

She turned her bed into a trap the beast died in.

 –

While he cried out her name, she clutched the knife

and slipped it between his ribs.

There’d never been a sweeter sound.

 –

Now she stared her maker down,

the half of her genes which betrayed her to a stranger,

and let him see her wolf-grin

 –

as the flesh of his throat parted like silk.

She danced in the red river.

 –

“That’ll teach you, father,

to sell  your daughter

for a flower.”