She was perceived to be weak, shunted aside with the beggars and the criers and the still. But she was so much more than just skin and paper and bones and entity. She was more than a thin cracked sugar skull. She was more than the monologue of a secondary character in a story she stars in.
She is the grace to a shadow, the stars in the void, the fire of the sun. She is the sourness of the wine, the thickness of sweet aroma, the bitterness of dark chocolate. She runs with blistered feet through shining caves infested with the roaches of desire and envies of the humans above, who call her nothing but an accessory to a story bigger than herself. She is queen, the queen of insecurity peeling away to a new arch that twirls around itself and becomes the face of the bleached moon.
The glittering pomegranate had nothing on her because it was all her choice. It wasn’t his dark endeavors that convinced her, it wasn’t the crumbling loneliness of a mother that prompted her, it was the pure desire in her to take control of something outside of a paisley daffodil in dry cracked ground.
Do not underestimate her stubborn character that oozes with lust like a white sheet dipped in black lead. Let her hands guide you in to a world more complicated that our very minds. Trust her counsel and jump through the glowing portal into an alternate universe where everyone will understand. Let her crack your rib bones between her fists like the dead branches of her once shining promise, and decorate your remains with dying roses to signify the dry arrogance of the worlds that mock her.
Because in a world full of obvious strength and outward confidence, it is important to her that we understand- there is a hidden will fighting to rip out of its tomb, trapped inside our pale tripping hearts.