April, Fifteenth.
I don't wake her up unless there is something pretty to show her
“Wake up my dear” I tell her, I glance over to the fields where the yield of dawn still leaves us sprinkles on charred steel. “I caught us something pretty” I say, and I look over my shoulder, everything appears silent but the edge of flight feels ever closer. I’ve kept her away from horror, I’ve slayed so much wickedness, my hands never stop shaking but darkness I don’t let her witness. “I found you this!” she sits up and opens her eyes, her face glistens in the sunrise the brown iris— like amber highlights. She’s the warmest thing I see every day I don’t ask for more, my wits are like magics in a world of ignorance and petty war. I stopped praying—I began changing, unlike a vessel always begging I shape my blessings daily like a wolf that is always ready.
