#173

she was the one who taught him that a literal slap in the face hurts far less than the metaphorical one.
she loved everything so emotionally, so symbolically, maybe because her mother never did. everything she loved became too abrasive, too abusive. like family and alcohol and whiteout and natural disasters. chasing after steel plated hearts, grasping at them with her clammy hands. if only she was made of fire.
if only she hadn't been broken.
she was different than anyone he'd met. maybe it was a different time. maybe she was the last of the substantial. she was the last before girls' brains were made of only glitter and self-absorption.