What Little Girls are Made Of
: : Sheds : :
He never was much for crying. Shedding tears was what men did when there was nothing left and nowhere else to go, when you couldn't go on and the battle was done and the losses were down on the ground for keeps and for good. She would agree with her inner Logan when he reminded her that what flowed through her arteries wasn't water and what kept her heart beating was more than blood.
Rogue refuses to look into blood-colored eyes or the face made of ice when she fights. The Danger Room is her escape. Her faux enemies are nameless, faceless, don't whisper secrets over coffee or break her trust—her heart has been past breaking for far too long—with icy ponds, don't write her name in flames across the sheet of poetry like burnt sunsets, don't smell like anything but blood.
She doesn't cry when she sheds a little. Isn't strong and fiery the way of the Southern belle?
Her skin draws secrets, whispers of thoughts, dark and rich like poison into her own soul, nightmares and dreams, the phantasia of a person's mind. Is it any wonder the blood she sheds leaks memories and desires, things best left forgotten, like the way it feels to love and laugh and spill milk into coffee and hearts into hands and heat into another's burning eyes?
And this time, the blood that stains her gloves is the color of her heart.