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Maybe there is a beast … maybe
it’s only us.
it’s only us.
But I don’t feel powerful.
I don’t feel magical.
Speaking of the grace year is forbidden, but it hasn’t stopped me from searching for clues.
A slip of the tongue between lovers in the meadow, a frightening bedtime story that doesn’t feel like a story at all, knowing glances nestled in the frosty hollows between pleasantries of the women at the market. But they give away nothing.
The truth about the grace year, what happens during that shadow year, is hidden away in the tiny slivers of filament hovering around them when they think no one’s watching. But I’m always watching.
I don’t feel magical.
Speaking of the grace year is forbidden, but it hasn’t stopped me from searching for clues.
A slip of the tongue between lovers in the meadow, a frightening bedtime story that doesn’t feel like a story at all, knowing glances nestled in the frosty hollows between pleasantries of the women at the market. But they give away nothing.
The truth about the grace year, what happens during that shadow year, is hidden away in the tiny slivers of filament hovering around them when they think no one’s watching. But I’m always watching.
I used to think that was my magic—having the power to see things others couldn’t—things they didn’t even want to admit to themselves. But all you have to do is open your eyes.
My eyes are wide open.
My eyes are wide open.
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