infinitelyinfinite3

This sensation sticks in my chest--eager
I let it control my body 
with its cold coils, I let it drown my 
lips in the burning liquid of its release 

I watch the world float along behind me, 

I was asked once how I felt about speeches. If I enjoyed doing them, for one thing, and if I liked writing them, for another. I replied, simply, with, "Do I like to write them, or am I good at writing them?" That is the question.

I have lived in constant fear of the word "beautiful." Exceptional, no, unique, never, but any word that has ever described the state of my face? Every. Single. Damn. Time. It's a consistent, damnable struggle.

The barracks were full of women. Tall, short, middle-aged down to teen and back up to seventy. Women, all dressed identically in long, thick tunics, black, white, or grey, depending on your rank.

The moment Jax woke up, her ears were awash with a loud buzzing—the buzz of voices, all around her. For a moment, she lay, frozen, immobile, until the reality of her situation converged on her, and she sat up, gasping her discomfort into the noise.