[open] most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs; any

[adaline]

I'm wasted, losing time; I'm a foolish, fragile spine
I want all that is not mine; I want him but we're not right

She had not wanted attention so it made sense then that she would instead draw a small crowd. It is the smell, naturally, that draws her attention first—toxic and lethal as it creeps along the air. Adaline, however, had inherited the kind grace of her mother and her expression does not change. She more than anyone perhaps knew how the seemingly casual quirk of a lip could bring more pain than a dagger to the chest.

“Sir?” she whispers, her voice as fragile and delicate as the rest of her, vowels dipping and rising gently in her throat. She quickly takes in his appearance, the missing mane, the forked lip, but her stomach does not turn. Instead, she feels a wave of empathy wash over her—large enough that she is able to ignore the rather regrettable odor now wafting through the air. “Are you okay?” she murmurs, taking another small step toward him.

It is then that her attention is diverted toward the dappled gray stallion, thick and roped with muscle, and on his face she sees the same hesitant concern she was sure was masking her own features. Her lips lift in the corners, and she commits herself to the conversation, the veil of her own isolation pulled deftly away for now. “Well, if it isn’t a party,” she chirps, feeling the sting of the gas prick at the back of her eyes. She glances toward the lime green roan first and then to the second stallion. “My name is Adaline.” Noble. She often felt anything but. “Who are you both?”

in the darkness, I will meet my creators
and they will all agree that I'm a suffocator