at the end of the day ...

[optic_martini]

At the end of the day, it is what she knew she would do. She is suffocating, dead to herself, creative vibes and urges dying among this midst of screaming children, children that aren't even hers, little ones she loves but does not like. She takes solice in a solitary canine, one who looks at her with wide amber eyes, sits near her just for the sake of sweet, owned respite. She feels herself dying, fading. She reads things she once wrote and feels as though her talent has been sucked back into the pores of the oak, oil seeping back into human skin. She does not feel her baby move, only imagines it, beating it's tiny fists against the hull of her abdomen, screaming into fluid that, for it, is air. She knows better things will come. When she smoke clears, and relative peace remains, ophelia will return, if only under a different guise. She will retain herself. She needs to get out of here, get away. Her heart pounds like the rabbits, hunted and alone in it's plea. Will it burst, straining to free itself from impossible chains? Perhaps.

Such a beautiful girl, she was, such a beautiful mind.