by Bea Waterush
barely a line, a short story if you must
|In Denial of the mirrors purpose, she threw a look to the boney structure of her average shoulders, her hand froze up out of shock, curling a clueless look to the impostor standing face to face practically breathing her own air, she watched the reflection of herself as the icy portal held them apart, the black curtain shivered with despair of watching the climax explode while an evening worth of gushes brushed in through the slit of her window breaking though gaps of the curtain, the wind scattered her hair opening her jaw into an expression she could not pull herself, the wind was thick and zealous with power soon it evolved into its transparent regular visitor, gaining its gowns of colours and the ongoing smirk that turned her head, he had scarred her shoulder, mentally through the eyes of traumatised Joan was a prickly feel that met her senses as she touched her collarbones, dolorous illuminated her senses and soul with a show to leave you struggling for air and the wish to be born was your eyes closed, her skin was suffocated like old oil painting beginning to rot yet physically nothing was out the ordinary.
Her eyes told lies.
But she was blind to liars. She did not trust easily, nor would she be seen as gullible in this situation but if has been raised a star naturally one would not seek to be the moon if not plucked with the idea.
And she had not been plucked, she was an individual sharing a mind with only one, the manipulator.