leija summit {district seven} |. fin

"Leija."

The words, faded by impending death, rolled off the cold lips of a dying mother, her last breaths giving her lone child a name.

"Leija," and she sank, fell from the river bank into the abyss, her broken body submerged into the black waters of oblivion.

"Leija," and the district cried out in mourning as the light gave way and darkness's reign began.

"Leija," and they carried me away in the snow, wrapped in violet.

"Leija," and they scratched Desareaux from the end of my name and sewed on SUMMIT in its place.

They say a piece of Roselia Desareaux lives in me, but I already have enough ghosts strung along my insides, etched into the backs of my eyes.

["Mom, can you tell me about my birth mother?"

"She died when you were very young."

"How young?"

"She died giving birth to you, darling."

"I killed her?"

"No. She was just too weak and didn't get the help she needed in time."

"Am I like her?"

"Very. I remember her very well - we were best friends, from birth to death. You have her hair - soft silk and red sunsets. You have her eyes, and about just as many angel kisses as she had."

"Do I act like her, too?"

"Most definitely. She loved animals and nature, just like you - loved to listen to the bird songs in the mornings and the owls hoot in the night. We built a treehouse in the woods when we were younger - the same one you played in as a child. I remember how we used to climb and swing on the trees and sit on the branches, talking for hours. A piece of her is in you, Leija. There's no doubt about it."

"What was her favorite flower?"

"Yours. A daisy - see? Just like her."]

If I had a golden coin for every time I've heard "You're just like your mother" -

well, I would still be drowning in money.

it's no fun when i'm sitting all alone

you're right in front of me

❧

{ table: zoë }

I do not belong here,

beneath this roof of burdens and baggage,

between these walls that seem to close in on me,

on these floors that creeeeak with "STELLA!"

I belong in the woods,

where my heart remains,

where my initials are carved into my favorite trees.

I belong beneath the sky, my body entwined in the branches on a bed of green. Not here, not in these halls, crowded by empty faces I hardly recognize anymore.

I am not a Summit -

I am not a madhouse personified -

I am the product of tragedy, a true Desareaux.

(I killed my mother.)

This family is a wolf pack and I am the omega, heaving under the might of all the Summit children snarling and howling for alpha. Everyone wants the crown, everyone but those who cannot see the gold or the jewels. The crown is made of sticks to me -

I could just blow it away with a huff and a puff, if my lungs were not so feeble.

I could just knock down their glass towers, if my hands could form fists and if my delicate fingers did not tremble beneath their earth shattering voices.

I could roar like a lion, if they did not scream like banshees. I could juggle boulders, if I was not sent stumbling down by their trip wires.

(But I am only a leader, I am only a lion, I am only a warrior, when I am not reeling in the darkness of the Summit shadow.)

I could do anything,

if I wasn't so weak they would fade from me.

I could
I coul
I cou
I co
I c
I ca
I can
I can'
I can't.

melting through the cracks in my hands

i guess i held on for too long

❧

{ table: zoë }