Arethusa Archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
archiveofarethusa) wrote2012-01-20 05:17 pm
archiveofarethusa) wrote2012-01-20 05:17 pm
Entry tags:
Waiting, Impatiently
When Jaida was seven, she wrapped her hair in ribbons and declared herself beautiful; now twenty-seven, she wraps her body around a man, declares herself monarch of his body, and wonders. But the warmth keeps her anchored, content.
Jaida can't stand it, this winter. Jaida hates the snow, its unpleasant coldness, the way it readily becomes tainted and ugly, all the trite adages it forms, and most cloyingly, the way it melts so eagerly under the warmth of a living hand.
She waits for summer, impatiently, snowflakes melting on her lashes, skin burning and freezing under a strange body.
Jaida can't stand it, this winter. Jaida hates the snow, its unpleasant coldness, the way it readily becomes tainted and ugly, all the trite adages it forms, and most cloyingly, the way it melts so eagerly under the warmth of a living hand.
She waits for summer, impatiently, snowflakes melting on her lashes, skin burning and freezing under a strange body.