What Little Girls are Made Of

: : Spills : :

She never held much with crying. Shedding tears was what weak girls did when they found out their boyfriends cheated, they're fatally ill, they're never gonna marry, they broke up with the best thing they ever had sitting in front of them before it could be inside of them.

Don't cry over spilt milk. Strong and fiery was the way of the Southern belle.

Rogue would think about hot tea in the middle of the night when nightmares would wake her and tumble her down the stairs of the girls dorm and landing forlornly in an empty kitchen, the only one up. She would think about coffee, latte to be specific. Hot milk in scalding drink.

She ends up with milk.

Rogue always liked to wake on hot Mississippi nights and drink her tea, cold and sweet, to rock on the front porch swing with her Mama under her singing softly until she fell asleep once more. Never mind New York summers that feel like winters because there's no one to keep her warm.

She pours herself a glass.

It's the vaunted cure for insomnia and tears. It's something they never gave her, not with ice cold water or flaming mugs or chuckles and spices. She pretends she doesn't see dark eyes that burn and drown her, hear soft lies in Mystique's tongue, or smell that Cajun spice. Pretends not to remember flaming apples of lost innocence and fragile trust cracked and open, raw darkness.

Rogue sways to some forgotten melody sung by a Mama over a girl already too old for trust. These Southern ladies, they take what they're offered, smile, say thank you. They don't say yes; they don't say no.

She swings too wide and white hits the tile. There are no tears when she slowly stoops to clean it up.

Shattered glass, cold nights and hands, warm water, clean air.

And all she sees is liquid white staining her gloves like blood.