{ side a ; track three }
❝Derrière chaque matin bon sourire était une grimace glaciales.❞
A thin beauty, adorned with golden tresses, lives out her days in French couture, but the garden weeds keep her humble.
Her parquet glistens in the evenings, but it doesn't compare to the way Rochefort dawn burns neighbourhood flowers into multicolour fireworks; each one, a carnival-like spectacle.
Sunshine is her only company, when the moon comes to steal it away she stares out glass window panes and dreams of uprooting white-picket fences. Mustard yellow is a much more suitable colour; it draws attention, it stands out, it says, 'look at me, I'm different'.
If she can't reap such thoughts for the wild curves and chipped porcelain she was born into, why not her home?
It's a fragile hope, predestined to be crushed under societies monstrous feet.
To her, every life-abounding rose is a horrid reminder of the smog eating away at her insides. If malice were contagious, the city would be plagued with nothing but her subdued weeds. It'd be a virus more bitter than cancer, growing in inexplicable chaos.
The rotten growl in her belly keeps her confined to this place, behind the yellow fence, where wicked flowers grow; a proper weed in full-bloom.
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2/10
Short Story❝keep two eyes on ten fingers, there's a thief among us❞ { s c r a p s }
