Calicatt

When she cusses, people cringe.  "It's just not right," they mutter.  And they're right, in a way.  It's because there's something so darn innocent about her, but if you really stare deep into her dark round eyes, there's something sad and wise and orange and a stripe of green, tiger-eyed, a silky luster, like a playing marble.

And poor girl (except she's not a girl, she's full-fledged and devastatingly breathtaking).  And you wouldn't guess it, but maybe you would, that she's been in the back of a vehicle with sirens screaming, all sorts of contraptions plugged into her, lying down, torso up a little, gasping.

And she's been on the brink of the very worst, and she's faced the very darkest, and, at times, she's prepared to accept the very empty.

But, there's this glimmer when she looks off into the distance in her romantic way, the wing-tips of her mouth rise up a little- and it's not smiling, and it's not smirking, but it's the beginning of something.