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A null. Someone who doesn’t hear any of the four elemental songs.
I see you, asshole.
Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream. Mine’s a scorched skeleton of flame-forged rage that keeps me upright. Keeps me moving forward.
You can reshape a turd an infinite number of times, but it’s still a turd. It still stinks.
“My life has never been on my terms.”
Long enough that I discern the hard segments of my heart aren’t going to shift back together and protect the soft core that feels too much. That I’ll have to nurse the hurt until it’s calloused over, a realization that makes me not want to rise again.
I love living, painful as it’s been at times. I love the colors of our kingdom and the way our clouds are ever changing. Ever shifting.
“This better be a threesome,” I grind out.
Creators, slay this male.
“Answer me, Moonbeam.”
I use the privy, lavishing in the freedom of being able to wipe my ass comfortably.
Hock roars. I smile. Love you, too, Clode! Miss you!
Unfortunately for her, I don’t draw self-gratification from the acceptance of others.
Love . . . The word is a quiet death that slips away without so much as a whispered goodbye—an abrupt shove into an eternal loneliness I’ll never deign myself to claw free of.
“Your hands know me,” she whispers. “Yes,” I murmur against her hair. “Know you, crave you, worship you.”
