I sat in the ashes, looking at the wounds that so lazily tried to metamorphose into scars, of all that was left of self imposed stabs and hurts.
I pressed each of all with grace, closing eyes, anticipating the pain that existed not. I winced at the slightest feeling, but there was no pain.
“Move out of the ashes. “
“Move out of the ashes.” a child whispered to the calm within me. But I moved not. I wanted to be there.
Then a prince came and started peeling of the dark scars one after another. In my laziness, I could only wail as every fragment detached, with every slice of fibre that he pulled.
He spoke with the wisdom engraved on stones of gold. He was meant for good, never for destruction. And it took me ages to realize that the searing pain was an illusion.
That it was all fear in a cloak of a daring demon, that my naked naivety fell at the sight of. With the teeth of iron that were but a decoy.
And as maidens sought for love on that rose filled day, I kept to myself begging for grace.