Of Introductions and Introspection
She has small hands and small ears. And eyes that are slits and teeth that are jagged and spaced. And were you to carve off her skin from the meat, you’d have in your hands a constellation, a map.
She’s terribly shy but won’t admit it. Would rather pretend indifference than gush and rave. Her prime sin of the moment is envy. Jealous of those with wings, those who up and fly.
For there is no map for where she’s going and the winds may blow and be kind to sailors, but she simply sits and dreams and tumblrs.