her.
she only ever wore all-black, but give her a canvas and she'll paint you a rainbow. she wasn't much of a talker, but give her a book and she won't shut up about it for weeks, going on and on about the characters as if they were real. she said she wore stilettos to trample on silly boys' hearts but she wore these cute, fluffy bunny slippers the first time i delivered pizza to her. she lived alone—"because sometimes there is beauty in solitude," she mused—so i dropped by her flat every once in a while—which slowly turned into every goddamn day—because a little company wouldn't hurt as well. she had that i-don't-give-a-fuck attitude when everyone was looking, but she cried herself to sleep because everybody she ever cared about turned their back on her. she was her own artist, but she was my muse. my back was her canvas and on it she drew her favorite cities. her hair was my garden and i decorated it with flowers and watered it when we had sex in the shower. she said she didn't need a prince charming but i didn't mind catching her when her knees gave in when it was all getting a little too much. she punched me when i told her she looked cute, but she kissed me when i called her a queen. her smile was a rarity so i treasured every moment she did. she was a little ironic, but i loved her for it. she didn't believe in true love but i believed she was mine. her words were like gunshots but her voice was an angel's. she had lots—and i mean lots—of mood swings, but i put up with it cause i loved her. and it was normal. especially with a fuck-up like me. and i guess she wasn't exactly the easiest person to deal with, but i wasn't going to give up. i knew her well enough to know that she hated it when people gave up. still, she herself gave up too much, but only because she thought too little. people called her lifeless—and to be frank, she did seem as though she was dead at the best of times—but how could that be when she was the only one to ever make me feel so alive.
