her ceramic heart was cold and hollow, but beating. her hands, a knife. her mouth, a spear. but her fingers, trembling. still, red roses bloom against all adversaries and wind their way across all boundaries, yet their petals and their thorns remain unfound. for what is the difference between a knife, a spear, and a thousand thorns? hollow, hollow, hollow, for it was spilling crimson.

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“How much time is left?“, her voice is steady, calm as the night. His hands capture her arms, swirl her around until her eyes are fixed on his and she discovers something maniac in the grey storms, something perilous that says he’d go at any lengths to let her live. “You won’t die. I won’t let you.“ He kisses her once, hard, radical, and when he turns around she convinces herself she doesn’t see his shoulders drop.

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She takes her last breath with the rise of the sun and a hunter’s bullet through the heart. An hour later there’s nothing left but dust. Behind the mansion, a dead field of withered poppies stretches over the garden, lifeless and grey and when the cold October wind blows over the land, the stems sway rhythmically to the song of mourning banshees. There’s a single poppy hidden between its dead brothers and sisters and the sun rays brighten its petals in ruby and scarlet while it beards against any weather. Not even the wind can blow it away.

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