nessa moreau. / capitol (fin)

i see it, i like it, i want it, i got it

whoever said money can't solve your problems

must not have had enough money to solve 'em

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    You're welcomed with open arms in the heat of Summer, and there’s something unearthly in your entrance to this world, what with the way you shrieked like a banshee yet shed no tears whatsoever. Not a single one. A performer from the moment your heart took its first beat, you have lived for the look on other people’s faces and the inevitable yes they would offer up to you.

    Your mother, god love her, saw through this with such a sharp, piercing gaze, willing her daughter to be better than this. Less greedy and more generous. Desperately, she tried to bestow onto you an understanding of wrong from right, good from bad, selfless from selfish. But despite her attempts, if ever not given what you desired, when you felt too starved for attention, or deemed yourself anything but satisfied, it was a fit you threw. Toys clattered against walls, food was flung from the tiny spoon in your fist and into the face of whichever poor nanny had been dumb enough to take what would turn out to be the hardest job of their life: helping raise a little hellion like you.

    But when blessed with a gift, or a piece of chocolate, a little attention, or a bit of praise from doting parents, it was nothing but sweetness that spilled from your lips.

    It didn’t take you long to learn precisely how to use this against them—against everyone—to get exactly what you wanted. First with a scream at the top of your lungs, but as you aged, it turned into a simple saccharine lilt to your voice. A bat of your lashes. A twist of your lips. And you could get anything. Your parents were just the start. Victims of circumstance, having been cursed with such a little brat to call their own.

    But still you blossom into a young woman who's world is clouded with adoration. Your parents dote on you, your teachers are lenient with your intense lack of interest in what they're saying, your friends look to you for their every choice and decision. The cafeteria is your stage, and with perfect cheekbones and a smile like that, you were surely worth the pause, the glance in your direction, the interest in whatever you had to say. They want to hear you laugh at one of their jokes, wish to know your thoughts on their latest outfit, hoping to god they impress you or catch your eye, for they know few do.

    You live your life in technicolor, don't you? Each hue a different emotion, a different shade that colors your vision. One appears, a tantrum. Another, a rush of sadness in the pit of your gut. One more, a surge of lust for the closest lips. A fourth, like a tidal wave of anger, you seethe with rage, red and flaming. From one moment to the next, you do a delicate dance between naive and ruthless, walking a fine line between sanity and madness. Your emotions always lie just beneath the surface—just. They tickle underneath your skin, pricking along your forearms and thighs whenever control begins to evade you, and how unfortunate it is for those around you.

    Understanding yourself is something you struggle with on a daily basis, but not in the way one would expect. You're a beauty queen, you're a monster. It just depends on the light and what sweet, little nothings you've whispered into someone's ear. But best believe, you can be tender. You can be as sweet as sugar on the tip of someone's tongue if they let you, yet they never realize how quickly you can turn bitter. As quick as the tides can shift in a storm. And god help those who take their eyes off of you before you're ready to be unseen by them, for your newest mission in life will become to turn them to dust, won't it?

    A collection of hearts is what you want most, each one so ripe for the taking, and they become your most prized possessions. But what you truly crave isn't a standing ovation from the masses, a group of people who are merely desperate for your approval, no. You want a knee broken and bent in your direction.  You so desperately want to be someone who is—no. You so desperately believe you are someone worthy of worship. Yes, you were raised a princess, given opportunities any other girl would have killed for, but you wear that privilege like a crown to envy. So ravenously you grew into a lover of all things beautiful: clothes, food, people; became a so-called master of all things elegant: vintage dresses, fine wine, satin sheets. And you did it all with a picture perfect, wind-whipped tousle to your onyx curls, petal-pink lips, and a smile that could have surely burned the entirety of Panem to the ground.

    It's such a shame you're so goddamn ungrateful. 

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they say, "which one?"

i say, "nah, i want all 'em"

happiness is the same price as red-bottoms