verybluebird

so much sorrow. it fills me. the world is bleeding, and i am not the bandage. it hurts me to know this, and i shed tears on this earth that i cannot help. i cannot heal the very thing that gives me life, and i mourn this fact with every breath. why is peace so strange to us? why is death an option? our hands wring necks, yet we have nails, not claws; we are built to plant, not uproot. we are soft at heart— so why, in these days of torture, are we stone? where are the gaps in our barbed wire? where is the water in our world of fire? our leaders, their fortresses so impenetrable, sit on their thrones. on their white horses, safe from

so much sorrow. it fills me. the world is bleeding, and i am not the bandage. it hurts me to know this, and i shed tears on this earth that i cannot help. i cannot heal the very thing that gives me life, and i mourn this fact with every breath. why is peace so strange to us? why is death an option? our hands wring necks, yet we have nails, not claws; we are built to plant, not uproot. we are soft at heart— so why, in these days of torture, are we stone? where are the gaps in our barbed wire? where is the water in our world of fire? our leaders, their fortresses so impenetrable, sit on their thrones. on their white horses, safe from

  It was raining. A proper rain, full of howling wind that rattled the branches, scraping the window ever so often. It frightened Lara, but her gaze never wavered. Sitting on her bed, her purple blankets pulled halfway off her bare legs, she was staring at the oval mirror just across the room.  It was dark, save for the moon peering into the rain-streaked window— just enough to  illuminate the mirror.     She could have sworn by all the books she owned (and she had three bookcases full) that there was something in that mirror. It wasn’t ten minutes ago, when an enormous clap of thunder shook the walls, that she had seen it it: mo