Head dropped down; observe the moon in the water, she reached a paw outwards, touched it, watched it ripple, something she could never have.

Quietly she rose to her paws, dragging herself through the forest, no one took notice, it didn't matter, she would snap if anyone asked if she wasn't feeling well.

she always had, likely always would.

Stupid bitch wasn't she?

Her wings drew tight and close, may as well have been broken for all the good they did her, pretty broken wings.

feathered ears tilted back, flatten, blue and crimson against ash.

Neon green eyes turned to the sky, count the stars, leave the moon out, stupid, lie of a moon, not a star, a planet, damnation upon the moon.

A paw drifted down, caught a poppy.

it tore, well, what more could she expect?

Fur slick to cheeks.

Even monsters could cry.

You're beautiful! silent cry to the poppies
Why, why won't you let me touch you?

You're horrid! the poppies seemed to cry back.

She tensed, biting at the poppies, beautiful horrible flowers, mocking her.

They were bitter in her mouth.

Poppies, bitter in her jaws.
Tears, bitter down her cheeks.

I hate you! silent cry to the world, I hate you!

Sometimes it rains on the ones that need sun the most.

Maybe she could rip herself apart the way she ripped others apart, and the whole forest would dance on her corpse.

She tossed herself against the trees, the rocks.

See what you've done to me, poppies!?

bruised and bloodied and tear stained, she made her way to the ruins, allowing her exhausted body to give out and collapse.

Collapsed in the poppies.

She hates those poppies.

But oh how she longs to be one.


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