Definitely not the type of girl to plant flowers on a window sill, the type to carry softness on her shoulders or a desire to witness hesitant, supernatural births of new morning suns with enchantment. She was a trigger aimed at empty clay pots, balancing on balconies and devouring emptiness as if volume alone would make her feel satisfied.
And her body held as much sentiment to her as a graveyard, skin crawling in an empty house she carried in her head. Everywhere she went stormy impermanence concatenated with the things she tried so voraciously to erase, like tethers tying her name down to insipid figures, like beginning chapters of stories she didn't want to hear with a protagonist too similar, too homespun, to herself.
Perhaps she had intention of detonating in her final, grand exit strategy, an elaborate move where the Queen conquered escapism, but now but now
no one will ever know.
Someone I knew passed away this weekend. This is her.