Wise Men Wonder While Strong Men Die

A/N: Short introspective piece. I hope you enjoy!

I'm nothing. A little ball of energy molded into the form of a teenage girl. Fake memories, fake thoughts, fake life. It's funny, really. Most girls my age worry about whether they're pretty enough, smart enough and good enough. I worry about whether I'm real enough, if I have enough truth and substance to keep from floating away.

Sometimes I think I might be, could be normal. Just another girl, another face that blends into the crowd of teenage angst and desperation and hope. Bu then Buffy walks in the door, reeking of blood and her own personal rot, Willow trailing behind with her dead eyes, dead heart, and dead soul. That's when I remember Tara's body, Glory's laugh, and Spike's bruises.

Willow offered to change me back once, when she was hopped up on magic and grief and truth. She could have made me into a miniscule ball of energy that didn't feel, and didn't need to. Something that was whole and pure instead of this body that I hate, hate, hate. And a tiny, practically microscopic part of myself wishes I had responded, and said yes when she had asked. Still wishing that Buffy hadn't barged in, trying to fill the role of the big sister that she never fit quite just right.

Sometimes-