this is it and nothing more - ( willow's )

trees . birds . death . white dress . bloodstains

"Its safe, I promise." I waited for her to catch up. The wind was strong, it pulled at the soft cream-colored dress that adorned my small figure, my knobby knees just peeking out from under the fringe at the bottom. A small white rose was tucked in my hair, frayed ends of locks catching onto the shriveled petals as the wind threatened to carry it all away, into nothingness. I have always wanted to visit that place, the place of white. The best I can have is the sky, the silvery color that reflects down upon my hair, making it glimmer. The girl, I believe her name is Andrea, her hair is muddy. No sunlight dares to touch it. I wouldn't either. As soon as she is my friend, I will do something about her hair. I will change her around to a new person. A new lady. She will be a replica of me.

dancing . gravestones . knives . dead animals . family

You look at me and all you can see is my eyes, they blaze like the sun. Never has anyone passed and ignored the orbs directly inserted into my pale facade. Florence describes my face like ice, the kind of that piles on the graves in the winter. I love the feel of the hardened liquid sliding under my fingers as I go outside when the snow is falling, (Florence always has the most perfect ways to describe anything.) Even when I see her compiling the dead, her eyes glimmer with perfection, every movement of her hand over the corpse is purposeful and un-flawed. It's stunning actually, to see my sister in such glory, I admire her so. Everyone looks up to Florence; I do at least, the little girl that watches with glistening eyes as her older sister tucks a piece of raven-black hair behind a porcelain cheek, a little girl that listens and holds onto every compliment as though it is the way through life itself. I absolutely adore her. No one will ever know that though, I'm good at keeping secrets.

tall . kind . glue . mother figure . strong

They say that my jaw is too big, that it juts out and causes the rest of my features to diminish into nothing, as though they were even there to start with. The bony edges of my cheeks and the narrowed shape of my eyes, they mock me and call me a cat, a wild thing with matted fur and a smashed face. I don't mind though, the truth should never hurt, at least that's what Victor used to say, before he died. He never thought that my face was too ugly, or that my shoulders were just a bit too wide to be acceptable in society. He thought I was perfect the way that I was, older sister Bronwyn with glowing cheeks and the strength to pick up things many times her own weight. He was never the "looks" type of guy, the one that would suck up to a girl because she was skinny, or she had nice hair.