all of the lions in your bedroom;
all of the tigers we ignored.
She never mentions the way her (paper) heart skips one whenever a blue crayon presses against her palm (the one that creates and destroys with wishes and wax shavings).
It's a lovely color, she thinks, like star-rich skies or salt-filled oceans that have nothing to do with tears. Like sandcastle heroes and seashell princesses. She only knows the shadows of these things.
He only knows the stories she weaves. Swordfights-and-star-charm promises.
They're only (white) lies. But she's almost certain he'd choke them down in saltwater gulps if they were painted red.
"Where's your hero now?"
But it's hard to follow the stairs and lies with leather against her throat; to keep the numbers straight while counting the rings around her neck.
"He's not here for you," the nymph laughs as the porcelain between her fingers cracks. "He'll leave before your pretty little pages hit the floor."
But, for what it's worth, she left first.
Black curlicues and screams like thunderclaps.
And, one-by-one-at-a-time, she ticks them off on her fingertips, and she knows, she knows, that it's only a matter of time before she's the only (no) one left in this tile tomb.
"I've been searching for you!" Her prince laughs and it's nothing like the one she's used to. "I didn't forget our promise."
She only shakes her head and frees the tattered stories from her fists.
And—haven't you heard?—promises mean nothing when made to unreal girls.
a / n ;; I know the hints at LarxeneNamine are extremely on the vague side. Sorry? And the ending's a tad abrupt, but I couldn't wrap it up any better.
But, on the bright side, you're already at the bottom, and doesn't that review button just look darling?