harlyn dubois [d7; cb]

(“This world does not make exceptions for people with lenient hearts.”

“What a dull world it would be otherwise, Margaret.”)

We could never see the world through the same lens.

I suppose this was a blessing of its own, for optimism and color were fingers intertwined with my own, pressing my palms together in prayer for the day that black and white no longer existed— what promise was polarized thinking to a girl whose home existed only six feet under or on the summits of mountains.

She met my eye only once, and in the moment when we did not break gaze I saw her commandments etched upon her skin; saw the promise in practicality and realized I did not yearn to have what she gave herself to until it threatened to bring her down to the grave she worshipped.

She was buried with an unfulfilled prophecy and no followers left behind to carry on the tale— I told her the day she left that I would not speak of her again.

How I have now broken commandments one, two, and four.

One— I will not speak of one who could not see grace where grace was given; faith in things unseen.

Two— I will not visit the gravesite of one who was buried long before we lowered the casket.

Four— I will not place a black rose in the casket of the one who stripped petals from stem and called it new life.

What a follower of this religion I have become.

Given three— I will not suffocate myself under the weight of a world that is bathed in light; will not cut off lost hope until color fades to three shades of black, white, and grey.

(“This world will kill you if you do not—

“Let it.”)