Wings.

2005.

There once was a girl with silver in her skin, and blood in her lips. She wanted to fly. She hungered so desperately to be beautiful and alive. So she made herself wings, of the most tender material. Fur-trimmed lace and silk with tiny incandescent sparkles, in hues of scarlett and magenta and gold. Crystal bells at the tips with little diamonds inside which would tinkle delicately in the crisp, oceanic breeze. She tied them on securely around her waist -- And then she ran. She ran so fast she thought she might run into beauty. Beauty with sunlit hair, pearl fingertips and rose coloured lips. Beauty with butterflies abound in her wispy tresses. She could show her life, Beauty could. She could show her acceptance, and happiness. Treasures she never found in herself. So she ran, far away and over the edge of the earth, her wings catching and the breeze gliding her through the air, across the horizon for everlasting, timeless seconds. She could breathe. She could feel every atom in her body, she could feel the heat, the raw energy unleashed, barely contained within her flimsy skin. But she started to slip. Her wings were colouring themselves metallic. Raging, menacing bronze covered what was momentarily beautiful. Her sins were wearing her down towards the sea ..or was it gravity? She spiralled uncontrollably, ever closer to the jagged rocks guarding the boundaries of the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing down beneath her were drowning out the sound of the gulls. Those birds always shriek when there is a sacrifice. No, Beauty did not save her. There is no hope for girls with blood stained lips, so undeserving of wings.