what to wear when…anat. cloaked in saffron and purple, she pounces, her eyes sparking like flint as she tastes the day’s first kill. dismembered hands hang from her gore-stiff sash, their ragged flesh smacking her thighs while she wildly fights. and such thighs they are: muscular, quick, sticky with blood. “what would a woman do with a bow?” she answers aghat with each swift tug of her bowstring and arrow-pierced enemy. she claims the title of virgin like a battle cry, loudly announcing her independence, but takes who she wants anyway. even anointed with ambergris, the metallic smell of death lingers (not decay or grief, not the permanence of death but the act itself - how her prey’s spurting blood speckles her henna-red skin, how her nostrils flare at the scent of sweat and iron). afterwards, her brother ba’al washes her clean, rivulets of pale red water dripping from her fists and face. as bloody puddles pool at her feet, she relives the sounds of singing steel and the wet rip of torn tendons. she grins, ignited, eager for more.
post 322 of an infinity-part series