petrichor

two knocks on the queen's door

a kingdom built from mud, plaster, clay

hardening in the sun, withstanding the winds--

not the winds of change, the winds of love.

taking a closer look, the mud isn't mud,

the plaster isn't plaster,

the clay not clay.

rather the leftovers of a girl's second chances,

the chewed-up-and-spit-back-out hope she once had.

they asked her why all the fortifications, and she said,

"i don't want Him to get in."

upon being asked who it was she didn't want inside the walls,

she replied.

"He isn't really a He...

He's more of a walking corpse, filled to the brim with rot and ruin.

a carcass with no feelings.

He looks--

feels--

real and living, but He isn't.

He is empty, soulless.

ravaging all He can get His repulsive claws inside."

"how do you know this much about Him?"

"i met Him once.

i let Him in once.

long ago, when my naivete outweighed my common sense.

He gave me what i never knew i wanted,

until one day

when He took everything from me.

my worth,

innocence,

love,

confidence,

my sense of direction,

my hope for a second chance, to start it all over from the very start."

they look on with empathy and awe.

then, one speaks.

"would you still let Him in?"

she ponders the question before answering.

her voice comes out shaky, and it almost startles her.

"yes, i would. every time."