that's khaleesi to you;

when you make a joke and someone tells you “that’s not very nice”

that girl isn’t fire, or steel, or ice; she is the warmth of morning rays, the softness of freshly-spun silk, and the slow ebb of gentle rainfall. her edges aren’t jagged and sharp like yours, but smooth and rounded; a stone unmarred by the cruelties of a world that would fashion it into a weapon, into a monster. (into you.) she is no warrior, but something far more rare. those beautiful eyes have seen the ugliest things within you, and she has never looked away. those delicate hands cradled your heart, never minding the threatening thorns it bore. she could have crushed it, could have broken it, could have held it hostage or torn it apart. instead, she brought it up to her lips and kissed, smiling with blood running down her chin:‘if you are made of thorns my dear, then i will be your flower petals—’

She poured the world into her soul, hoping it would make her whole, but the emptiness would always stay because she gave too much of herself away.