skye { twelve } cb fin

if the clouds were singing a song

i'd sing along

wouldn't you too?

"My Mom gave birth to me outside, apparently, and when I arrived she looked to the sky and said "Skye." And that's how I came to be. I don't know my Dad, but that's cool."

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Sky-blue. Skye, blue, curled up in her duvet looking like a sprite in the clouds. Blue skies, squinting at the sun, miss-matched socks in the summertime. Skye and her charcoal pencil lines across her eyes. (Those pencils cost two coins a pop at the tattered corner store for tattered corner girls in tattered corner worlds.)

Overalls in the spring, hair in two bunches, she bites the corners of pencils and sits on her rooftop watching the blue-eyed girls and the blonde-haired boys walk past her in their own little world. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark. Almost, not quite her family, she stole their facial features and bone structure upon her birth, balancing on one foot upon her own charcoal line.

Hair like her mother, her aunts, portrait photographs.

Skin like, arms like, lips like a stranger.

One of the blue-eyed,
blonde-haired
raven boys.