Jagged cuticles were a proscenium for your uneven black fingernails as they carved into the moldy, heather colored paint on the door frame. The threshold groaned, and chips and splinters gathered in a pile around your red four-inch high heels. There was a smile on your lips, and even though they were some strange tinge between seafoam and blood, it was beautiful.
I gathered you up. My arms cradled you against my bare, frostbitten chest, and the laces of my boots sounded like mice skittering across the tile floor. Taken away from the whittling, your claws, dripping with your own blood, started to dig lovingly into the flesh on my shoulders. I
The Legend of Leon Valiente. by HiMyNameIsCrash, literature
Literature
The Legend of Leon Valiente.
There is a man you may recall
Whose hide has broken canes
Most men, when killed, will disappear
The Masked One remains
Your memory will carry on
And never throw away
The ballad, nay, the legend, of
The León Valiente
The Lion comes, he's dressed in tights
That cover just his legs
His Mask it taut and perfect,
Not a single loosened thread
His body is a mural
Of our Independence Day
Slaves and captives, victims, praise
The León Valiente
His boots lace up, his hands are gloved,
He's wearing iron rings
And rumor has it, 'neath his cape's
A pair of angel's wings
When the moon's a sliver
That's when you'll see the Rey
The hero