she hums,
gracefully weaving,
effortlessly sewing.

scarlet hair cascades up to her back.
her lazy, brown eyes--sharp.
she's wearing a crimson dress
with horrible frills
and stuffy fabric.

she dances across the room,
and sings sinfully.

she inserts the red thread of fate
into the eye of the needle.
she knots it,
and sews.

she laughs,
as she hears shrieks.
a beautiful instrumental to her humming!

("What wonderful instruments you are.")

she mournfully shakes her head,
seeing looks of disdain and horror
directed at her.

her girls needed to look their best after all--
she even made the effort to help them too.
how ungrateful!

(sew their mouths shut.
she does just that.)

she bursts into a gleeful chorus.

(before their consciousness faded away,
they curse the inescapable thread
that caught them
and entangled them with the countess.)

it's almost two in the morning.
i toss and turn,
roll around--
nothing.

sighing, i sit up,
and think to myself,
"This hasn't happened in a while."

my mind automatically goes back to that time,
when i was younger,
and our family went to the capital.
slept in some fancy hotel
with some fancy people
with their fancy clothes.

on the second night we stayed there,
i couldn't get a wink of sleep.
i don't know whether if it was because of exhaustion
or something else.

naturally,
the next morning was hell.
i was pissy and bored
as we waited for father in the lobby.
i couldn't take a nap in public because, well,
i had my pride, of course!

chewing a gum quite aggressively,
i observed my surroundings.
my gaze hopped from one person to another.
a royal from a country i haven't even heard of.
an important figure in politics.
a celebrity.
a kid.

white blonde hair?

i haven't seen hair of that shade.
it was quite unnatural here.
i whipped my head to the left and saw
two beautiful people.

the taller was around my age.
he had the same mop of hair as the kid i saw (the shorter).
the child, on the other hand,
was most probably no older than six.
they were both awesome.

the light glowed on their figures,
and it looked like they were godsend.

i haven't seen anything more beautiful.

and who knew that who knows how many years later,
i would find myself looking back on that vivid memory.

as if it had happened yesterday.

(i feel like i'm still stuck in that time.)

don't treat them like they're rocks:
they can stand strong, but they need support too.

don't treat them like that forgotten garbage bag near your backyard:
they do not reek, and they are beautiful, indisposable.

NO! don't treat them like fragile flowers either, but rather:
treat them like humans who have been hurt, who dislike pain as much as the next person, and who need and want respect.

consume us,
oh, pools of darkness around.
your bottomless ponds
look back at us,
don't they?

let us climb up your nest,
and sew your threads.
your golden crown
will never waver,
your highness.

use us,
destroy us,
make us your puppets, materials, playthings,
anything.

we are yours.

gray.

black.

white.

his friends are gray.
his family is black.
the sky is white.

he feels like he's going insane,
running and pushing through the crowds
because why were the colors escaping him?

does he have to live through this boring, mundane and colorless earth?

he pants,
trying to catch his breath.
his surroundings, full of grays and blacks.

("Why is everything so black and white and gray and black and gray and white?")

he puts a smile on his face instead,
gathers around his friends.

he thinks he sees yellow.
but his sight keeps on betraying him.

he tries living in a banal, monochromatic world.

but.

he picks up a razor,
not heeding the warning:
Curiosity killed the cat.

(at least red was so much more beautiful than black and white and gray and black and gray and white.)