07-18-2018, 09:00 PM
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she sort of looks like a shadow, walking that morning. or, perhaps, snow white. fair skin, dark hair, crimson colored lips from the wind. the sun was only just beginning to rise, but she'd been up for hours. she was quiet when she walked, each step muted, lips pressed together hard and unmoving. dark eyes study the horizon, pale and calloused hands stuffed in her pockets. her gait speaks volumes that her mouth doesn't - hips swaying in time with her shoulders, it's almost aggressive, you might think she was gearing up to swing at someone, from the way she saunters forward. but her face says nothing, her face never says much. she's good at that, the whole poker face sort of thing.
the only thing that makes any sound is the chain that hangs around her neck, and the set of wedding bands that hang on them. talia, one reads on the inside of the silver band. margaret, the other reads. the light catches them every now and then, drawing attention, and they sound with each step, colliding. god, it was such a metaphor for their relationship. all she and talia had ever done was collide with each other. after it was all said and done, maggie still isn't sure what to make of the marriage, short lived as it was. but it had happened, and it had been beautiful at times.
her hair is gathered atop her head. the vanta locks are straight and smooth, hanging heavy in the bun at the nape of her neck, and a few strands escape, falling into her face. every few steps, she'll push them back, but she doesn't really care about how she looks, only that her face is sort of wet and they're sticking to her flesh. her breathing is steady, and her hands, every time they slip out of the pockets of her pants, aren't powerful on their own. they look like any young woman's hands might. but the closer you look, you can see the callouses covering the palms. and if you watch her any other time, any time when she's not trying her very hardest to come across as nice and approachable, you might see the way she handles a knife, a gun, a fist. they look powerful in those moments.
but power tends to scare men in charge, so she reigns it in. she makes dark eyes that can see into your soul seem kind. she does her best to soften an aggressive gait. she does her best to seem unimposing, to hide the truth for the sake of making this all just a bit easier.
she sort of looks like a shadow, walking that morning. or, perhaps, snow white. fair skin, dark hair, crimson colored lips from the wind. the sun was only just beginning to rise, but she'd been up for hours. she was quiet when she walked, each step muted, lips pressed together hard and unmoving. dark eyes study the horizon, pale and calloused hands stuffed in her pockets. her gait speaks volumes that her mouth doesn't - hips swaying in time with her shoulders, it's almost aggressive, you might think she was gearing up to swing at someone, from the way she saunters forward. but her face says nothing, her face never says much. she's good at that, the whole poker face sort of thing.
the only thing that makes any sound is the chain that hangs around her neck, and the set of wedding bands that hang on them. talia, one reads on the inside of the silver band. margaret, the other reads. the light catches them every now and then, drawing attention, and they sound with each step, colliding. god, it was such a metaphor for their relationship. all she and talia had ever done was collide with each other. after it was all said and done, maggie still isn't sure what to make of the marriage, short lived as it was. but it had happened, and it had been beautiful at times.
her hair is gathered atop her head. the vanta locks are straight and smooth, hanging heavy in the bun at the nape of her neck, and a few strands escape, falling into her face. every few steps, she'll push them back, but she doesn't really care about how she looks, only that her face is sort of wet and they're sticking to her flesh. her breathing is steady, and her hands, every time they slip out of the pockets of her pants, aren't powerful on their own. they look like any young woman's hands might. but the closer you look, you can see the callouses covering the palms. and if you watch her any other time, any time when she's not trying her very hardest to come across as nice and approachable, you might see the way she handles a knife, a gun, a fist. they look powerful in those moments.
but power tends to scare men in charge, so she reigns it in. she makes dark eyes that can see into your soul seem kind. she does her best to soften an aggressive gait. she does her best to seem unimposing, to hide the truth for the sake of making this all just a bit easier.
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[color=#BCD8E4][shadow=black,left]a weekend on a boat in california
memes available upon request  van#5054