she feels her days dwindling down.
something sickening settles in her stomach and comes and goes as it pleases, allowing her to reward herself with joy for a moment just to return to ruthless anticipation shortly after. she doesn't assume that people hate her because she knows they do and can do nothing about it because she hates her too
although they do not speak in hurried whispers as she passes them to sip from a pearly glass or fall silent as she ascends up wooden stairs, they loathe her. she prickles at their skin with swords too small to be noticed but powerful enough to cause pain as long as they are sure she breathes and slowly intakes another breath. there is a certain disarray of emotion seeing her stare off into silence as they spoke freely; a random displacement of feeling as they observe how her voice is somehow unable to raise above a low hum in volume.
she is a ticking time bomb with no certainty. a coat that has slipped off its hanger. no one ever hears her weep or wail throughout her endurance of any troubling time: she continues her sufferings in complete silence. she's stunningly absurd, so deep in her woes without any efforts to pull herself out
she knows their distaste for seeing her blink away tears and breathe slowly to calm a raging storm that has suddenly brewed ( one, two .. ) and she knows they would rather see her blood seep into newly polished wood than see her lips stretch into a smile. but so does the moon.
so does the air that wisps past her cheeks and the perspiration that slicks against itself when she lets herself go. all of them loathe her; so all of them wait.
until her tears dry
and light seeps through her skin.
