The Dreamer's Archive
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This is not a story about beautiful girls.

Not about nice ones, or convenient ones. These are the girls you run from, the ones that can never and will never be tamed. They are the ones who overflow, with need, with violence, with longing for each other. They are the witches that you could not burn, and they care for nothing but their own.

This is not a story of the men that try to control them or define them. This is not a story about the women who judged them or pitied them.

This is the soldier turned revolutionary. On the surface, they are calm. They have killed before and they will again.

They are the rigidity of the dirt.

This is the wilder one, their claws never sheathed. Everything they are is stolen, ripped from the pages of ancient books and out of the heads of those who would deny them their strength.

They are the wind that runs through savage canyons.

This is the girl in the garden; her colors are punishment for a sin she doesn’t yet comprehend from a god she refuses to bow to. She watches and waits for an opportunity she doesn’t know she’s searching for.

She is the reflection in the fountain of life.

This is the open hearted. She is not soft, but she is kind. Her violence haunts her, not for the pain deliberated but the paths she has cut off. She was born in the hidden world, but she dreams of mundanity.

She is the ember that sparks revolution.

This is the force of nature. There is violence in her three scarlet eyes, and she will tear this Earth and all others apart with her bare hands if it gets on the way of what she desires.

She is the brilliant burning heat in summer.

This is the magician. She twists knowledge into the weapons of the geek and walks the world with a target on her back in the name of nothing more or less than good humor. And she is a believer.

She is the rainbow colors of autumn.

This is the dog. She submits in the name of a greater good that was never meant to include her. But she still dreams of running free with a pack of her own kind, even as her leash is loosened and tightened.

She is the bud in spring.

This is the facet of a larger gem. She is short, with raven hair that falls over her eyes and makes her look small, but she is one of a multitude. An infinity of girls, each with their own uneven edges that threaten to cut any who fall into their orbit.

She is the frost of winter.

This is a story about them.

All The Gods In All The Worlds
titles from Blue Lips by Regina Spektor
-stories about liminal places.

god this is all there is
the pictures in their minds
the knowledge tree
rest a little while
no one saw, no one heard
the most human color

sad eyes, bad guys
Titles from Ghosts by Halsey
-stories about girls that are monsters, monsters that are girls, and other violent things.
the body sleeping next to me
mouth full of white lies
kiss me in the corridor
but quick to tell me goodbye

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