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Dedicated to those who see no bars but still feel caged. Fly.
Gold may gleam, but it doesn’t stand the test of time. It wears down, loses its luster, becomes nothing but a needy, malleable surface with no durability.
Time changes with torment. It stretches on, lengthening seconds, extending minutes. I’ve learned that pain and fear have a way of prolonging. And as if that weren’t cruel enough, our minds make sure we relive those moments again and again and again, long after they’ve passed. What a bastard, time is.
“We’re all captives of something, even things we don’t want to admit to.”
“So, you’re the famous gilded woman that everyone’s been talking about.” “Unless you have another one stashed somewhere.”
“You may not be behind bars anymore, but you’re still in that cage. And I think part of you wants to stay in there because you’re afraid.”
You’re so much more than what you let yourself be.”
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”
Plotting is what I’m best at. A good thing too, since I lack both of the traits that this world respects: power and a penis. A shame that I lack the first, but the second? I’ve found that most of the people who have those are altogether disappointing.
“There will always be someone who will try to make us choose option one. But don’t. Don’t lie down to make it easier for the world to keep you under its thumb. Own your shit and choose yourself.”
“And they say women are the weaker sex. Men are only as strong as those sensitive dangly bits between their legs.”
“Kindness shouldn’t have to be earned. It should be freely given.” Keg laughs softly. “My ma used to say something like that,” he replies, looking over at me. “And you know what?” “What?” “She was a damn smart woman.”
Each of us represents a little piece of home, and maybe that’s what we mourn most.
He rescued me when I was at my lowest, and because of that, I thought staying with him would keep me at my highest. But really, he’s trapped me in place and forced me to accept it all.
His are deep green eyes, like rich moss right before it’s about to turn brown. Life, right before death. Richness, right before rot. But it’s the markings on his face that I can’t stop staring at. They rise out of his collar, trailing up his neck, curling over his jaw, like roots searching for soil. Like veins come loose from a poisoned heart.
