You. There you are, dressed in black, frowning at me through long brittle hair that hangs limply like torn, stringy curtains around your face, casting shadows on protruding collarbones. You face is shifted slightly forward, as if in concentration; your neck looks fragile, breakable. You gaze stonily through eyes that look deflated. Glaring, perhaps, or trying to appear serious, but failing miserably because that is what you are: miserable.
I am faced with that sullen, defiant stare, and oh, how I hate you. I want to break that angular, sunken face; make you bleed; rearrange your features as Victoria will later do. And she will have reason to
You. There you are, dressed in black, frowning at me through long brittle hair that hangs limply like torn, stringy curtains around your face, casting shadows on protruding collarbones. You face is shifted slightly forward, as if in concentration; your neck looks fragile, breakable. You gaze stonily through eyes that look deflated. Glaring, perhaps, or trying to appear serious, but failing miserably because that is what you are: miserable.
I am faced with that sullen, defiant stare, and oh, how I hate you. I want to break that angular, sunken face; make you bleed; rearrange your features as Victoria will later do. And she will have reason to