She was a little warrior
she wore her knives on her sleeves and even more so, her heart. but who cares? being weak was never an issue for her. after all the years that she swam in fear… of the times where fear was the only food she can afford, the only drink to quench her thirst, her only friend to see her cry, she embraced him. because the tears that came… they were razor blades. and the bruises that formed on her wrists, they were tokens of the fights she had gone through. in a world full of mannequins and lies, all she had were the knives sticking on her skin, digging on her flesh, the bruises that never appear to heal, and her saccharine smile that hid her rotting lips. because she knew her heart was muscle and not glass, and she was a girl of flesh and bone, and not porcelain. for every drop of tear she shed, her nimble fingers draw blood. and for the numbers of slashes her heart received, it will callus and persevere. with that knowledge she went, hand in hand with fear and sleepless nights, to the great unknown which was destiny.
*** 2012(c) Victoria Rahardjo please do not take without my consent.