The Girl Who Always Cried

She had Raven hair with creme skin. Her eyes soaked in tar clouded with the pain of every breath. She cowered from any and all who approached her. Cold and disconnected. The idea of kindness haunted her day drams, hope was a sickness with a never-ending search for a cure. She was a lost soul in a world that swallowed her whole and spit her out again. The rumors behind the rivers of tears ranged from whoretisc attention to pure rebellions rage shifted into a gothic state. She wore only black and once a year, on October 31st, when the children would dress in costumes and masks filled with joy and eagerness for the sweets of the night. Only then could she show her true form. Dressed in a white robe whose borders had extreme delicate details, so elegant the stitches appeared to be gold from the wheel of the baby snatcher himself. No one dared speak to her, for each who tried were answered with a cry all-glass shattered into dust, and if one touched her weapons would cease and her turns turned black and with a voice from another realm she spoke “morte”.