ella, district seven | {cb/fin.}

Birthed in shadow
Heart of light
Mother with nary a face
Love with hardly a trace

But a man of obsidian
Cloaked in gold
Took I, the infant
Into his lovely abode

"Mama's gone —
'Bout six feet under. 
But  Father will love you,
Like dew upon the flowers."

Said: "Dont
Question the past,
Of who you were,
Or what you are.

'Cause you're just Ella,
My little Ella.
I am your savior, 
Your father.

Fret not my scars,
Or the veins that rise
Underneath the flesh
Of my neck.

For I am quite  gentle, rather kind.
It's your sister, Mara,
Who shall feel my burns.
Ivory flesh scorched,

Far different than yours.
She's so much like you —
adopted just the same.
With her soft lips,

Gentle beauty such a
Sweet delight.
Yet, she's nothing like you.
Harsh, severe.

You could draw the nectar
From fickle flowers
With merely a laugh.
Your sister?

Flowers wither in her wake,
For she is frost;
You are the sun —
And never question why.

Why you are so loved?
Why Mara falls prey
To the screams that keep
You awake in the dead of night?

Don't fret it.
Don't ask why
I took her in,
When it's you —

You who I give my dusty heart,
And she who I give
My depart.
Mara has her role,

Just as you.
She is my dark machine, 
And you —
You are the bright key."

White roses in my hair,
Mara says "I have nothing
to wear."
I offer her my light.

She says, "Nah,
I'd rather go cold
Tonight."
Just as 

I'd rather know why —
Why she hates me?
Questions I can ask
Of why she is bitter,

When I mean no harm?
Hair like dark earth,
Eyes like bright skies,
Face far too childish

To hold any dominance;
Nothing like Mara:
So beautiful, strong
I am porcelain —

Meant to be left alone.
I live in shallow waters —
My sister drowns in
Oceans deep.

I should disregard memories
Of who I was before.
Mara questions our father,
But I find it a bore.

He says he loves me,
Why ask for more?
Mara must be jealous,
I'd like to think.

But sweet as I try to be,
Heart fluttering like
Doves on the wind —
Why is it me,

Me who she feels to be the villain?
White roses in my hair,
But apparently that does not
Compare —

Compare to the monster she
Makes of me,
Held together
By the strings of our father.

We're just two poor
Girls, thrust together
By a man with
A plan —

Mara says,
"He's sick.
He's using us —
He doesn't-..."

Love us?
No, just not her.
Surely she just thinks
Far too much.

I don't question it.
Hardly do I think deeply,
Like white roses —
I stay pretty, silent.

It's Mara, who burns.
Though she is dark,
It's I, who lingers in the
Shadows of our father

— Though I am light.

---

( OOC: Deduct 50 incentive points from my remaining 103, please & thank you! )