A lie told to be justification in the crime, all in order to be nice. Drop the nice and you see the broken girl trying to sing. Instead, she has become stone.
Up there on pedestals, you perch, looking down upon mere mortals. You killed the one winged angel, but there hides another.
Tingles run down my arms, abdomen, and to my toes. My brain understands what is going on but my heart shreds, seeing her inside the box.
She blinked the sleep from her eyes seeing the most beautiful woman before her. A nuzzle and kiss upon her shoulder, she was safe from the monsters for now.
She looked on her watch, the minute hand ticks away. She wondered if she could time her heart to the same rhythm as her lover's.
The glass eyes turn watching your every move, every single step. To watch through them or, heaven forbid, watch them back is privileged. The privileged savors every single moment.
Scurrying around like little ants, round and round, they make others happy. The witch shifts herself to take the form of an ant and joins their route, showing them the joyful art of dance.
Click goes each bead, falling into place. Different colors run along a thin translucent line, tailored to whom it will be worn. My heart sank as one line was cut, small spheres going in directions.
The cold machines roll thunder through the countryside, aimed, poised. They have never ventured this far before. The monsters perch atop the machine's cabins. She peers through the blinds, knuckles white against her broom.
Met her in the summer heat by that river running through the neon city. Arrived with billowing flowers, reds and yellows. Beautiful.