Pale

To be human.
Such frail little things. Prick us and we bleed. Our hearts open to a thousand gushing songs. When we run out of veins we most move along and find new avenues.

To be a girl.
Such frail little things. Rag fuck doll to be stuffed and packaged and sauced and dressed with coquettish cruelty. And when we're discovered we panic through the singular jungle, following the dark river upstream.

But we learn. And we grow. And we grow stronger. And we fight back, with tooth and claw. And we kill. And we kill again. Until we pale.