Fiery Little Thing

by Avina St. Graves

those disgustingly pretty golden-moss eyes of his collide with mine, and every damn day, he opens his equally disgusting pretty mouth to turn my mood from bad to worse.

“I’m going to shiv my fucking demon in his sleep and call him a cunt if he comes within ten feet of me.”

the worst tour guide known to mankind—the kleptomaniac couldn’t even figure out how to exit the building when the door was right in front of us. She’s going places; far just isn’t one of them.

Me too Blaze lmaooo

The world can have Prometheus; I have Blaze, the girl with the fiery attitude—completely and utterly unhinged. The girl with hair and eyes the color of flames: blue, copper, orange, red. Blaze is fire.

This is the first time I’ve been kissed sober, and I’ve never felt more intoxicated.

A trip to the shrink isn’t enough. I need to be put down.

Lmaooooo

Feminism? Out the window.

Kiervan’s. Checkmate, asshole.

I love her lol

Then she touched me—well, she slapped me. But she chose to put her hand on me. Me. And god it makes me giddy to think she willingly put her hand on me. She chose to slap me.

She looks like she’s been hit by the fucking plague.

What every woman wants to hear

“I’d rather be dead than be yours.”

Jokes on them; electrocuting me turned me into a brand-new person.

?!

What is life if I don’t fuck around and find out?

New motto

I don’t fear death, only the idea that I might die without making a profoundly negative impact on someone’s life.

Less weight on her head might make her think better.

oooof lmao

Her face is so beet-red, I’d almost feel inclined to call her cute—but the word is too mundane to describe what she is. Alluring. Bewitching. Catastrophic. Certifiable. Just to name a few. A venomous little scorpion.

I knew then that I was happy to burn if it was because of her.

My brain short-circuits. He can’t say shit like that to me. Take care of me? What the fuck? Those four words are all it takes to get me to fold for this lunatic?

Affection isn’t possible without pain. Love doesn’t exist without hurt. So when will this crumble?

“For you? I’ll burn it all.”

For the sake of my sanity, I need rage.

If the intention is to control them, then it isn’t true love, it’s loving the idea of them.

And maybe, just maybe, when I die, I’ll still remember what being cared for feels like.

“So truly, from the bottom of my heart, fuck you for being like everyone else.

Owwww

“I didn’t choose this life! I became a villain just for being conceived by the wrong people.”

“And you stayed the villain because, at the end of the day, chaos is the only time you get to spread your wings and pretend you’re in control.”

I will not die letting men like him survive on my wilted corpse.

My wings aren’t clipped; they don’t exist. And I’m fucking sick and tired of it. I’m done.

he’s the first person who saw my dying heart and wanted to bring it to life.

“From murder to corsages.”

“Baseball bat.” A slow grin spreads across my face. Damn him for knowing how to pull me out of my head. “Can we play classical music in the background?” My breath catches when he kisses my forehead. “As my batshit crazy woman wishes.”

I’m a byproduct of my grandfather’s wrath and my mother’s shortcomings. Born into a crumbling, gold-plated cage with nothing but darkness to guide the way. I survived in a place where monsters are made.

I don’t want to feel human. I want to feel unstoppable.

It’s too shallow to be called love. Too deep to be called infatuation.

When the hate is gone, there will only be pain. But that pain means nothing when it’s all I’ve ever known. My grandfather has built his life on top of my starving body. He let my bones whittle, and infections fester within the rotting walls of the structure he built.

“I am done paying for the crime of my birth.”

“If you walk in there with anyone but me, their family won’t have a say on whether they get cremated or buried.”

“I’m the klepto here. You know that, right?” “And yet you look so pretty against flames.”

I was wrong to think that I didn’t deserve a prince. They simply were never made for me. I don’t want the prince. I want a villain.

You once asked what Blaze is to me. She’s my vice. My fire.”

I want her heart to beat easily the second she wakes up in the morning. I want her to smile for the sake of smiling. Laugh, cry tears of joy, skip around until she’s shitting fucking rainbows. I want her to be happy. And if everyone has to die for that to happen, then I better get good at digging graves.

I take a moment to admire my very own fiery little thing:

“Do you think you can just order me around?” “Yes.” God, she’s fucking right.

I will hunt you down to the end of the earth just so you don’t feel alone for a second. I will find you, even in another lifetime. If you’re in hell, then I’ll burn willingly. My soul is yours, Thief.”

With or without a pinky promise, I’ll help her burn each and every motherfucker who has ever wronged her.

A psychiatrist would have a field day hearing that our push-and-pull relationship comes in the form of stealing from each other on a daily basis.

I’ve been throwing hands against guys older than me the second I came out of the womb.

They don’t get to fucking win. They don’t get to dance on my grave or spill cheap wine over my fallen corpse.

A Year and a Half Later

These get me everytime

“You know you’re meant to ask, right?” “It wasn’t a question.”

Prime example of green flag for fictional man but absolutely a red flag for irl men