indiana "indie" costar / d11 / fin
Jun 1, 2019 11:17:25 GMT -5
Post by goat on Jun 1, 2019 11:17:25 GMT -5
indiana “indie” costar
18
she/her
district 11
18
she/her
district 11
She is bandaged fingers and white-blonde hair. She is the smell of cinnamon in the fall and cherry in the spring. She is a soft knit sweater, messily cuffed jeans, old boots improperly laced. When she smiles, it’s all dimples and freckled cheeks and creased eye corners. She takes your hand and traces the lines on your palm, did you know your heart line is particularly long? What’s your sign? You seem like a Capricorn. Do you know what time you were born? Here, sit—
Her eyes hold stars tied together in constellations that cannot be found in the sky. She speaks of Venus and Saturn like they are old friends. She tucks herself away in her kitchen, leaning over pies and danishes and cakes, the words of charts and houses on her lips. People say she is a witch, or a prophet. Some say she is psychotic. She sees no need to label her way of seeing the world. She is happy speaking alone to the cosmos above her, and that’s all that matters in the end.
Her eyes hold stars tied together in constellations that cannot be found in the sky. She speaks of Venus and Saturn like they are old friends. She tucks herself away in her kitchen, leaning over pies and danishes and cakes, the words of charts and houses on her lips. People say she is a witch, or a prophet. Some say she is psychotic. She sees no need to label her way of seeing the world. She is happy speaking alone to the cosmos above her, and that’s all that matters in the end.
