Boots swing, arms thrown wide; before a lid flutters to a shut—𝒂 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒌, as a 𝘵𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘵 leaves her. All fingers but one curls into a fist, pointed at the * ( reader ) in a gun forged from flesh.
“Don’t tell me—you’ve missed your most favourite actress!~”
𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑮𝑬𝑫𝒀 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑺 𝑰𝑵 𝑽𝑬𝑰𝑵𝑺; spiderweb of regret, hymns of mourning sang—forget not how wine of blood splutters from a maw, tears everlasting. The salt of it curls with crimson gathering at the back of a throat.
She mourn for a sweet daughter designated for ruin.