ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Gods & monsters by Lana del rey
The silence in the house was comfortable, yet filled with small sounds that kept you present. The creak of the floor beneath your bare feet, the soft hum of the ceiling fan, the flick of a lighter breaking the monotony. Billie was sitting on the couch, one leg crossed beneath her body, her posture relaxed but her mind clearly elsewhere.
The air had a hint of tobacco, mixed with the sweet scent of the candles she had lit earlier. In the dim light, her hair seemed darker, the reddish highlights at the tips barely visible. You didn’t look at her directly, but you could feel her presence, magnetic as always.
“Do you think this makes sense?” Her voice broke the silence, soft but carrying something more. She wasn’t looking at you; her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, as if the answer was written there.
“What do you mean?” you asked, putting down the book you’d been pretending to read.
“All of this.” She made a gesture with her hand, encompassing more than just the room, more than the house. “The fame, the expectations, the people who think they know me just because they’ve heard a
You took a second to process her words, but before you could respond, she let out a sarcastic laugh. “It’s like being a god on an altar. Everyone worships you, but no one really sees you. It’s exhausting.”
You stood up from the couch where you’d been sitting and moved closer to her, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “You don’t have to be a god with me,” you said, your fingers brushing lightly over her arm.
Billie lowered her gaze to you, and for a moment, her impenetrable façade seemed to crumble. Her eyes, as intense as always, were filled with something you recognized: fatigue, fear, a desire for something real. “You say that now,” she murmured, bringing the cigarette to her lips, “but in the end, everyone wants something.”
Letting go of my tightly pressed lips, which hurt as I separated them, I took the cigarette from her, which was about to damage her lungs, and extinguished it on the table next to the couch. She didn’t even move a muscle. It’s not that she liked smoking that crap… It was just that she was running out of ideas on how to push away her overwhelming feelings.
“Not you?” The hint of humor in her response made your heart tremble a little.
You shook your head, and before you could say anything else, she moved her head, and her body followed as she left her pathetic lounging position on the couch, leaning toward you. “Then why are you here?”
It wasn’t an accusatory question. It was pure curiosity, mixed with that insecurity that sometimes slipped into her words. “Because with you, I feel something different,” you said, your voice dropping. “Like, for once, I don’t have to try to be enough. Like I can just be… me.”
Billie let out a sigh, leaning back against the couch as she closed her eyes. Her hands, calloused from years of touring and playing guitar, rested on her knees. You could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she breathed deeply as if trying to release a weight she’d been carrying for far too long.
“It’s weird,” she said after a while, her voice lower, like she was speaking to herself. “I never thought I’d find something like freedom here, with you.”
She opened her eyes and looked at you again, this time with a small smile that didn’t quite erase the melancholy in her expression. “Because freedom is dangerous. It’s easy to get lost in it.”
As you looked at her, something in her posture seemed almost unreal, as if she wasn’t a real person but a carefully composed image, a character from some movie you didn’t even know you were acting in. The way her hair fell over her shoulders, the curve of her mouth as she exhaled the smoke; everything seemed designed for chaos, to entangle you in the mix of art and life that had always surrounded her.
You knew she wasn’t perfect. You knew the Billie everyone saw wasn’t the Billie who was now in front of you, barefoot and disheveled on the couch, but still, there were moments like this when you wondered if you could ever reach her level. Not in terms of fame or talent, but in that overwhelming presence she seemed to fill every space with.
“When you speak,” you thought, not daring to say it aloud, “it’s like everything around you is a movie, and I’m just trying to learn my lines.”
It wasn’t insecurity, not exactly, but there was something that made you question every little detail about yourself when you were with her. Like if you were a little prettier, a little more interesting, a little more something, you could fit better into the role she seemed to have written for you without realizing it.
“You know?” you began to say, breaking the silence without realizing you’d spoken. She looked at you with that intensity she always had, like her eyes could pierce you.
“Sometimes I think that this, you and me… it’s too much to be real.” You lowered your gaze to your own hands, unsure how to finish the sentence. “Like, I don’t know, I’m waiting for something to ruin it.”
She studied you for a few seconds, her expression changing slightly, becoming a bit softer. “Do you think life is that hard?”
You didn’t know what to say.
“Because it’s not.” Billie leaned forward, her eyes locking onto yours. “It’s complicated, sure, but you don’t have to make it harder than it already is.”
“Easy for you to say.” You tried to sound lighthearted, but your voice betrayed something deeper.
“It’s not, really.” She leaned back against the couch, her tone softer, almost whispering. “But if you let things consume you, they’ll devour you. No one will take your soul unless you give it to them.”
Sounds logical, you thought. But it wasn’t that simple, not when you were sitting in front of someone who seemed to have it all while you were struggling with your own fears. “And if I’m not enough…”
“It’s not about that,” she interrupted, with a firmness you didn’t expect but needed. “It’s not about being enough for me or anyone. It’s you. And if you can’t see that, then it doesn’t matter what I see.” She had already stood up abruptly from the heat under the sharp lamp.
The silence in the room was thick, almost palpable. Billie was sitting at the edge of the bed, her elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped together, staring at an invisible point on the floor. The soft light of the lamp created shadows on her face, accentuating the weight she seemed to carry on her shoulders.
You approached slowly, noticing how her fingers tensed at the sound of your steps. She didn’t look up, but when you sat beside her, her body leaned just slightly toward yours, as if seeking your closeness without daring to ask for it.
Her calloused hands now rested on her thighs, her knuckles white from gripping so tightly. You lifted one hand, touching hers carefully, and the ease with which she exhaled almost broke your heart. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers interlaced with yours, a silent anchor in a sea of chaotic thoughts.
You looked at her, waiting for her to speak, but she only closed her eyes for a moment, her lashes trembling as if she was fighting something she couldn’t put into words. Instead of speaking, her fingers brushed against yours more firmly, a small gesture but full of meaning.
Her other hand found your face, caressing your cheek with a clumsiness you hadn’t expected from someone so sure of herself. When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes were a scribble of emotions: pain, regret, something that seemed like a plea.
“Don’t let this change you,” she murmured at last, her voice so soft it was barely audible.
Confusion crossed your face, but before you could ask, Billie leaned forward and rested her forehead against yours. The contact was gentle, almost reverent, as if she were afraid that one wrong move would break something.
Her lips moved, but the words got stuck in her throat. Instead, she let her actions speak. The way her hand traveled to the base of your neck, how her fingers traced the line of your collarbone, as if she were trying to memorize every detail.
When she finally spoke again, she didn’t look you in the eyes. “I didn’t want to lose what I was before this.”
A knot formed in your throat as you heard her, because you knew exactly what she meant. She, the woman who seemed to have everything, felt like she had nothing to give you except her flaws, the broken pieces she was trying to put together.
Billie lowered her gaze, as if embarrassed for having said too much. But her hands, which never stopped touching you, told another story. They wanted you to know she was there, that she always would be, even if she couldn’t say it with words. Her fingers grazed your skin with a mix of fear and need.
There was something in the way her eyes kept avoiding yours, as if looking too deeply would make her vulnerable, as if she feared you might see everything she was trying to hide.
Suddenly, she let go of you, but not to pull away. With a slow, deliberate movement, her hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. There was no rush, no urgency; just a moment of pure connection, as if everything else had disappeared.
Her lips met yours with a delicacy you didn’t expect. It was a kiss full of meaning, a silent language that said everything she couldn’t express out loud. She held you as if you were something precious and fragile, but at the same time, her kiss was firm, sure, conveying a silent promise that she wouldn’t let you fall.
Her fingers gently buried themselves in your hair as she deepened the kiss, letting out a barely audible sigh against your lips. It was as if she was trying to etch you into her memory, as if she wanted to make sure that this moment, this instant, would be marked forever.
When she finally pulled away, it was slow, as if it hurt to let you go. Her eyes finally met yours, and what you saw there took your breath away: honesty, vulnerability, love.
“I don’t know how to say it,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “But I hope you can feel it.”
And you did. In every touch, every kiss, in the way her hands continued to touch you as if you were her only anchor.
Porque en ese momento no hacían falta palabras. Lo que compartían era algo que trascendía el lenguaje, algo que sólo se entendía a través de cada pequeño gesto y de un beso que, sin necesidad de hablar, lo decía todo.
"Esto es el cielo, lo que realmente quiero" Es la inocencia perdida
okay soo.. that was my first writing everr..the song deserved a damn interpretation
