Pick up the pieces, broken girl, before they all turn to dust.
Dear Diary:
From afar, I do not look like much, do I? I suppose I am not, not after all this time. Just a girl with broken wings. A shattered, useless china doll. A china doll, of shattered glass.
Pick up the pieces before they all turn to dust, Avon would tell me. But she took the most important pieces. I am a lot sappier than I seem, am I not?
I can only imagine of the paradise Avon rests in. Far away from here. Far away from Hell. Far away from me, which I suppose, in the long run, is for the best. Because all I do is hurt people. And I don't want to stop. I don't help people. Because no one helped me when I watched Avon fall. When I heard her scream.
You feel all but dead. I am a zombie. Run, run away, broken girl, before the monsters finally find you. Before they eat you alive, from the inside back out. Hell hath no mercy.N Not for broken girls with bitter souls.
Guess who's fucking sixteen? Yeah. Me. I hate aging. A celebration of being closer to death, when it is no celebration. Because life is a rug; something that can be yanked out from under you so swiftly, you do not even notice. The only thing standing between me and finding immortality is Avon, the promise of seeing her after death. My blonde little sister, with the pale grey eyes. Nightmare eyes, I would call them. The color of the moon, of its shadow.
My dagger's getting a bit rusty. I wish that there was a weapon wielding class. I am not what I used to be on my knife. Der Tod des Star. Death's Star. My beatiful, glimmering dagger, with a sharp, onyx blade, rubies circling the top of a smooth, leather handle. The sparkling blood, on a dark, cold night. Avon's blood, forever staining the old scraps of a dark grey sweatshirt. Locked away forever. Like my knife, sheathed in a soft stone, powdered and stirred until it can be made into fabric. Someday, I'll take my knife, and drive it into the neck of the people who killed Avon. Who let her fall, down until she was gone. Gone from me. I suppose, for that reason, my dagger is one of my prized possesions.
My only other worldly possesion I care for is Rosa Scuro-Dark Rose. Italian, a beautiful, dark language. So much more beautiful than my native Polish, which I no longer speak, or the German which I have picked up soully for the purpose of eavesdropping. The black demon cat, with red eyes-I have yet to discover why her eyes are that color, the color of dark red blood, of roses. The cat is quite adorable, yes, perhaps to an eye other than mine. But she is warm, and soft, and reminds me of Avon-except for the whole cat from Hell thing. It is almost worth going to Durmstrang to learn all the languages. To save your secrets.
Anna. Tshering. The girl from the alley. I don't even remember how I came across her name. Perhaps through eavesdropping-I happen to do that quite a lot. The only reason I wanted her damn name was so I could possibly freak her out. I would've creeper-stalked everyone at my school until I found it. But in the long run, does it even matter?
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Taryn Eliza Lennee
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