( i have edges, she thinks, in the quiet gloom. you and paul can't stop cutting yourself open on them. not like briars on a plucked rose, soft and beautiful, but glass shards scattered on a wooden floor, disassembled and broken by someone else. a irreparable mess, and not their own to clean, despite how often they try to pick her up and cradle her in a palm. despite the fact they must know, by now, it will always hurt them.
no subject
after a stagnant pause: )
You don't have to make yourself my keeper, Alia.