porcelain raised her | maisie&peggy

Fray becomes more comfortable on her tongue with each new month, but she knows that she'll never belong. Not really. Lions can raise a lamb in their image, but it doesn't change the nature of things. A hawk is a killer and a songbird is dinner; privilege is eternal and a street-rat will always be nothing more than garbage. Better to pretend than to rot, she guesses. She'll wear a cardboard crown and play the part of the modest princess at all the parties. One loves its Cinderella stories — and everyone else loves a good tragedy.

She'll put on a show.

Someday, but not now. The sky is grey and the streets are quiet and she walks to clear her head from empty thoughts. No words, just static. A buzzing in her ears and an itch to run. Falling off the edge of the world is an almost comforting thought, but there are too many pieces of her here to leave behind. She wants to be whole when she finally breaks for the last time. She has to find herself before she can lose herself. A laugh, hand running through black curls — what use is a metaphor? Just sad words to describe sad things bothering sad people. It's tiring, and-- damn. She's a hypocrite for thinking it, but Peggy Fray is the sun when she crosses Maisie's path.

Eclipse; and all the stars drop dead.

She smiles, offering a kinship that doesn't truly exist between them. What can she give that her cousin doesn't already have? A songbird only has its heart and its song, so gifts the latter. She prays that the hawk isn't hungry. "What are you doing out so early?" she asks gently, not wanting to overstep any boundaries. "Going to train, or just enjoying the fresh air?" Maisie looks upwards, hands tucking themselves into her pockets. Clouds stay in place, and the scenery is still as dreary as ever. But it's silent. It's calm. "The mornings around here are always peaceful, aren't they?"