COLT
She's a runner, she's a lover, always stuck in her ways
Pull her closer, think you know her, now she's turning the page
She gave a warning if it's storming, she'll be gone with the rain
Pull her closer, think you know her, now she's turning the page
She gave a warning if it's storming, she'll be gone with the rain
There’s a flicker that rolls through her, lit up and gone like a lone firefly, responding to the accuracy of his words that follow a thought she didn’t voice. It should feel like evidence being slapped down as surely as a winning hand at a table, but her suspicion only deepens at it. Carnival bullshit, as he so aptly labels it, is the exact sort of thing that relies on tells in order for the professional deception to work, which is why she dampens the show of hers before he catches on.
Schooling herself into a rigorous poker face as he challenges her right back, she firms up all her slopes that have gone round with weariness, creating as impassive of a line as she can manage. There’s something like defiance in the angle of her eyes as she holds him, until the notion that closing them might make it more difficult, and so she shuts him out in the only way she’s ever been able to.
That also makes it easier to wade into a thought that isn’t a number or a color, which is precisely what tries to rear up for attention, one-hundred and one and the gunmetal grey of a thick storm waved away. Annoyingly, she finds that the request to think of anything else leaves her momentarily blank, as if freedom is a terrible vastness instead of the comfort it always seems. Naturally wisps of him try to take shape, but that feels just as easy, so she reaches instead to recall something he couldn’t know—a version of her he’s never met.
She’s running—or better put, half-falling—and slipping over slick straw. There’s a sense of panic, felt like a rhythm in her pulse, yes, but also the short, frantic draw of breath, overly audible. She’s aware of it, and cups her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle it as she tucks her back up against the corner panel of wooden fencing. A basket hangs from her other hand, creaking as it’s momentum gradually sways to a stop with her. Out of sight, a flapping ruckus and then a drawn out baaaaaaaaawk. She swaps to holding her breath, but the terror that turns the corner has already caught onto her. The small, red rooster struts into view and with a genuine shriek she bolts past him, having cornered herself, and bats him away with her basket, sacrificing all the eggs in an effort to get out scratch-free. Her childhood’s daily tormentor, Nestor.
”Alright,” she drawls, one eye poking open, as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. ”What was I thinking?”
Schooling herself into a rigorous poker face as he challenges her right back, she firms up all her slopes that have gone round with weariness, creating as impassive of a line as she can manage. There’s something like defiance in the angle of her eyes as she holds him, until the notion that closing them might make it more difficult, and so she shuts him out in the only way she’s ever been able to.
That also makes it easier to wade into a thought that isn’t a number or a color, which is precisely what tries to rear up for attention, one-hundred and one and the gunmetal grey of a thick storm waved away. Annoyingly, she finds that the request to think of anything else leaves her momentarily blank, as if freedom is a terrible vastness instead of the comfort it always seems. Naturally wisps of him try to take shape, but that feels just as easy, so she reaches instead to recall something he couldn’t know—a version of her he’s never met.
She’s running—or better put, half-falling—and slipping over slick straw. There’s a sense of panic, felt like a rhythm in her pulse, yes, but also the short, frantic draw of breath, overly audible. She’s aware of it, and cups her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle it as she tucks her back up against the corner panel of wooden fencing. A basket hangs from her other hand, creaking as it’s momentum gradually sways to a stop with her. Out of sight, a flapping ruckus and then a drawn out baaaaaaaaawk. She swaps to holding her breath, but the terror that turns the corner has already caught onto her. The small, red rooster struts into view and with a genuine shriek she bolts past him, having cornered herself, and bats him away with her basket, sacrificing all the eggs in an effort to get out scratch-free. Her childhood’s daily tormentor, Nestor.
”Alright,” she drawls, one eye poking open, as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. ”What was I thinking?”
When she's in it, she's all in it, ain't no holding her back
When I'm with her, she's a river moving steady and fast
She's afraid of all the ways her heart is broke like glass
When I'm with her, she's a river moving steady and fast
She's afraid of all the ways her heart is broke like glass
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
