She writes poems in a purple binder overstuffed with parchment,
childish handwriting letting only six words to a page.

They watch her as though she were two gods fighting,
wondering when she will conquer.

The bracelet is much too small for anyone else's
wrist, but it fits mine just fine.

Hide in the dark like a cornered slugbeast
and lash out at those who come too close.

Where are you going on this treacherous road?
Don't you know it will take you nowhere?


Squishy!
Iquee

Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Chronos, in the year 366 AF.