she was the little girl who painted sunsets and rainstorms. she heard music where no one was listening. she saw beauty in shattered glass and weeping trees and rain on asphalt, shining like silver, and she hated the sight of the sun. she was the little girl that nobody talked to, the one that dreamed of flying, but felt like a butterfly with its wings plucked off.
she was the little girl who knew black eyes and the smell of alcohol. she knew all the best places to hide when mommy came home drunk and angry and just waiting to beat her with words and fists and hatred. she knew bruised bodies and broken hearts better than she knew pretty dresses and tea parties.














Comments
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" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
i hope i can finish it too
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"painted skies, i've seen so many that cannot compare to your ocean eyes. the pictures you took that covered your room, and it was just like the sun but more like the moon..."
*project-improve
the second one is really sad to me...
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"painted skies, i've seen so many that cannot compare to your ocean eyes. the pictures you took that covered your room, and it was just like the sun but more like the moon..."
*project-improve
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" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
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"painted skies, i've seen so many that cannot compare to your ocean eyes. the pictures you took that covered your room, and it was just like the sun but more like the moon..."
*project-improve
yeah...i'll probably scrap it
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"painted skies, i've seen so many that cannot compare to your ocean eyes. the pictures you took that covered your room, and it was just like the sun but more like the moon..."
*project-improve
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