I. They say she’s made of sugar and joy, that her laughter could lit up the sun. She smiles and smiles and says the world is lovely and she is fine, but her lips are beginning to hurt and the lights are growing dimmer.
II. Each unspoken word is a shadow holding a knife, a ghost of emotion poised to strike if she falters. Her heart is bleeding, the stitches from years past slowly coming undone. She’s not a seamstress, but she tries to learn nonetheless, so she can fix herself this time and no one will be any the wiser.
III. They say she’s made of sunshine and dreams, but she’s read too much, felt too much to believe it real. She’s a sun hungry for something inside of her which will eventually end, she’s a sweet dream turned into a nightmare in a moment’s notice. She’s a painting of an enchanting landscape in shades of black and blue and grey.
IV. Words bleed out of her heart, a strangely coloured substance she uses to create new worlds and remake old ones. She looses herself in these alien colours of her heart, hoping, praying, that whatever her tired fingers can conjure will be enough to feed the growing emptiness.
V. They say she’s made of possibilities, of futures bright and awaiting. But some days she looks ahead and all she sees is mist, a mist so thick she can’t even see her own hands. The future is mysterious and unknowable, and she’s too afraid of what’s she’s going to find beyond the white veil.
VI. She speaks, she writes, and hopes her words will reach someone, somewhere— that they’ll understand what she cannot. The shadow of despair hides in the darkened corners sunlight does not reach and the light’s running out of time.
— we’re nothing more than fading suns | g.t.m
annaxmalina
dededos
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
