03-29-2020, 11:42 PM
Another stormy, spring day.
Droplets of wet kiss her skin, weigh down her hair and leave it a wavy, matted mess. If she could see herself, glimpse her own reflection in the puddles below, Jenger might have sought shelter more often. As it stands, one might believe that the young woman was just comfortable in her own skin, unconcerned with appearances.
What is shelter to a daughter who’s never known protection, what is comfort to a child that was never consoled?
Overhead the thunder sounds, booming claps to signal the racing streaks of burning light to follow, and as they do- they race across her skin as well. A mirror to the heavens painted against her curves, reflections of the heavy steel-grey clouds, burdened with moisture until they burst. A mimicry of a master’s whip when the sky fires have had enough, biting white hot against their stormy base, it must be both fearful and wonderful to behold.
A mocking bird.
If she could see herself, would she just disappear into the backdrop of the sky, what if she wanted to?
For now, it’s an impossible feat, and she laughs as the skies cry against her freely- if there is one thing to be said, she is no stranger to tears. As a girl she was sad often, confused and hurt regularly. It’s hard for a child to understand a mother so unloving, so careless, cold and distant- but Bly is Bly. That sort of upbringing leaves a mark, scars unseen on the inside, it’s difficult to trust when your world harbors no conviction.
jenger
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