Rosaline Francesca Venil -- District Five
Apr 30, 2012 11:00:43 GMT -5
Post by Tattletale on Apr 30, 2012 11:00:43 GMT -5
[/color] Although they possessed the same kind of persistence that
But he
That dares not
Grasp the thorn
Should never crave
The rose1
“ i f y o u c o u n t t h e t h o r n s ”o , b e s o m e o t h e r n a m e ! | rosaline francesca venil
w h a t ' s i n a n a m e ? | rosa
t h a t w h i c h w e c a l l a r o s e | seventeen
b y a n y o t h e r n a m e | female
w o u l d s m e l l a s s w e e t2 | district five“ a n d p a y n o h e e d t o s i l k e n p e t a l s ”Beauty is the eye of the beholder, and the enamored gazes that are automatically drawn to my voluptuous figure just like how honey lures in bees, or how the fluttering color-speckled wings of a butterfly delicately lands on a flower petal. But this is through a different eye ― my eye ― bright as the clear blue expanse above. And like the sky, bestowed with a million birds more than content for the tips of their outstretched wings to touch the wisps of clouds dotting the heavens. Although they think they own me like I own them,I don'tthey don't. At least, not while the sky stretches and stretches and stretches to reach its invisible unknown desire among the never-ending darkness of the galaxy.
But District Five was not that galaxy, and thewanderlusting eyes of the men around me certainly weren't stars of some kind.
If I had known better, I would've darted out of that pig house of a catwalk in a flash, preferably chucking a pebble
But I hadn't, and while you don't learn any of these golden knowledge inside the constricting four walls of a classroom (in which I was quite sure was time well-spent in decorating the corners and margins of her notebooks with incoherent doodles, half-mindlessly whispering with the girl seated beside me about who-knows-what), I was
Of course, my child-mind absorbed it all, slowly swallowed it until it has now become a part of who I am, and the effect is irreversible.
A little voice inside of me tends to question the treasured words that they have been kind enough to give away to someone so young, but in the end, they crush it to tiny pieces anyway, and the nagging feeling is gone.[/color][/justify]
“ i t w o n ' t b e a s s w e e t ”
Kind of like feeling numb.
I go around my life like this, feeling so empty on the inside that maybe I'm not human. Maybe if I die and finally come back to the open arms of the earth, perhaps I won't rot. Perhaps the earth won't be welcoming me with open arms in the first place, seeing how it almost seemed impossible for me to be one of them. Everyone says that I'm the one impossible, how someone who looks like me could possibly walk the same land that had received tears of anguish, the land that could have caused something so horrible that it would topple buildings into rubble, and like how an infrastructure would ultimately meets it's demise, take a life and watch as it dissipates back into the atmosphere. (And they have compared so many times to the winged creatures that were said to be forever immaculate and just the very embodiment of goodness that it almost frightened to how I was seen in two different sides of the spectrum.)
To be honest, I don't know.
I would have never seen of it that way, not without the constant reassurances that my parents constantly feed me with, and the never-ending patronizing that's oh-so-clear in their eyes. Maybe theirs contempt or envy behind that glassy surface that only ever reflects me, no matter how hard I try and look into their eyes and search for their souls (which to be honest is quite a chore, and a useless one and a dumb choice ― but wasn't that everyone's perception of me ― at that, especially how it seems to show on its own whenever something makes their hearts flutter) and for once, it won't always be about me.
I go around my life like this, feeling so empty on the inside that maybe I'm not human. Maybe if I die and finally come back to the open arms of the earth, perhaps I won't rot. Perhaps the earth won't be welcoming me with open arms in the first place, seeing how it almost seemed impossible for me to be one of them. Everyone says that I'm the one impossible, how someone who looks like me could possibly walk the same land that had received tears of anguish, the land that could have caused something so horrible that it would topple buildings into rubble, and like how an infrastructure would ultimately meets it's demise, take a life and watch as it dissipates back into the atmosphere. (And they have compared so many times to the winged creatures that were said to be forever immaculate and just the very embodiment of goodness that it almost frightened to how I was seen in two different sides of the spectrum.)
To be honest, I don't know.
I would have never seen of it that way, not without the constant reassurances that my parents constantly feed me with, and the never-ending patronizing that's oh-so-clear in their eyes. Maybe theirs contempt or envy behind that glassy surface that only ever reflects me, no matter how hard I try and look into their eyes and search for their souls (which to be honest is quite a chore, and a useless one and a dumb choice ― but wasn't that everyone's perception of me ― at that, especially how it seems to show on its own whenever something makes their hearts flutter) and for once, it won't always be about me.
“ a s y o u b e l i e v e i t w i l l b e ”
I guess I spoke too soon.
Mother and Father have always liked being on top, and I guess they liked it so much that they devoted every single moment of their lives, from dawn to dusk, into planting their on names right on top of everyone else's. They reasoned to me that it was all for the me, for my sibling's sake, that we won't ever go through a rough path. And maybe they took that metaphor too much into their hearts that they spilled oil right in front of our paths, the slick black going on for miles and miles and miles.
It had been a success for them, and I was supposed to be happy for them. Isn't that what angels do? Aren't they supposed to be happy for everyone else while they get left behind while they watch everyone eventually die while they go on with time?Is that what I was supposed to be looking forward to, unless the odds happen to be not in my favor and pluck me from my home and into a blasted Arena? And wasn't I supposed to be happy when, with batted eyelashes and a pout, my one, sole wish was granted?
They didn't only spill oil all over the blood of thosedisgusting, foul-smelling animals, I they spilled blood of our own kind.
You see, I never really thought of it this way. But I was never known to be thinking things through enough. I thought that maybe, without her beloved father and brother, China wouldn't have that much of a glow radiating off from her, something that I could never quite grasp on. I just wanted that glow gone, and maybe (unfortunately, the demon didn't feed off of food, and instead of attention that made me crave something that I would have made me turn away with such repulsion) all eyes will be on me once again ― but things don't work that way.
So let's just say that she vanished into some world that I could care less pondering uponand hopefully to never return.
And unfortunately for me, so did that 'little glow inside of me.' Contradicting feelings brewing up a tornado inside my stomach wasn't something pleasant to be dealing with, and in the wise words of my intoxicated friend, 'a couple of measly drinks won't hurt you.'
[/color] It didn't, but the aftermath can be accurately described as a crash and burn,[/color] especially when you had placidly tied yourself down with an oath to protect that 'little glow inside of you' as hard as you could, because there was nothing better than a reason to feel special. And now, with half of my dignity chewed, spit out, gone and filled with less-than-pleasant, search-and-destroy (I'm looking at a walking contradiction of a Napoleon higher than the Capitol's skyscrapers and a certain redhead, thank you very much) emotions I'm sure wasn't from the monthly moon cycle, I was ready to question my parents' words.Mother and Father have always liked being on top, and I guess they liked it so much that they devoted every single moment of their lives, from dawn to dusk, into planting their on names right on top of everyone else's. They reasoned to me that it was all for the me, for my sibling's sake, that we won't ever go through a rough path. And maybe they took that metaphor too much into their hearts that they spilled oil right in front of our paths, the slick black going on for miles and miles and miles.
It had been a success for them, and I was supposed to be happy for them. Isn't that what angels do? Aren't they supposed to be happy for everyone else while they get left behind while they watch everyone eventually die while they go on with time?
They didn't only spill oil all over the blood of those
You see, I never really thought of it this way. But I was never known to be thinking things through enough. I thought that maybe, without her beloved father and brother, China wouldn't have that much of a glow radiating off from her, something that I could never quite grasp on. I just wanted that glow gone, and maybe (unfortunately, the demon didn't feed off of food, and instead of attention that made me crave something that I would have made me turn away with such repulsion) all eyes will be on me once again ― but things don't work that way.
So let's just say that she vanished into some world that I could care less pondering upon
And unfortunately for me, so did that 'little glow inside of me.' Contradicting feelings brewing up a tornado inside my stomach wasn't something pleasant to be dealing with, and in the wise words of my intoxicated friend, 'a couple of measly drinks won't hurt you.'
But who am I to disagree, or to agree, or to question, for that matter? I know of nothing, and so I won't speak
“ b u t r a t h e r b i t t e r , a n d a d r o p o f s w e e t ”
c o d e w o r d | odair
a n d w h i l e h e r f a c e | candice swanepoel
r e m a i n s t r u e , l i k e s t a t u e | rosaline in the shakespeare plot; romeo and juliet
i t b r e a k s | 1 - quote by anne bronte; 2 - william shakespeare's the tragedy of romeo and juliet; act II, scene II
i f w e l i s t e n | narration; DF4D6C
w o u l d w e h e a r | speaking; BF6673
h e r c r i e s | others; 60B386
t h a t b u r y t h e m s e l v e s | emphasis; 809980
i n h e r m i n d ? | thoughts; 9F8079
a n a u t h o r ' s n o t e | january 3, 2012 - edited the template <3[/blockquote][/size][/blockquote]
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