whether she was moulded from clay or god-blood she is as celestial as the stars and she burns just as bright as any supernova before her.
she believes in love and love believes in her. mother earth guides her, the moon threads constellations through her hair as she sleeps, daisy chains on fire woven into a crown that holds meteor in place of diamond.
she laughs and even the sky weakens; lightning pauses as she passes, thunder falls under her spell. she is the daughter of amazons, god-slayer. she is warrior, weapon. woman.
To the people who cry about the little things, you’re not making a big deal out of it. You have so much love in you that you have the capacity to care about the little things very few people care about. Don’t question yourself and the way you see things because the way you see things is pure and lovely and worth every tear shed.
It wouldn’t be red. Red is powerful and vivid and vast.
You wouldn’t be Orange - warm, welcoming, and vibrant.
You probably wouldn’t be as soft or as bright as yellow.
Nor would you be as fresh and wholesome as green.
It wouldn’t be blue, either. You are not deep enough or mysterious enough to call yourself blue.
You aren’t passionate enough for me to call you indigo and
You aren’t loved enough by me to tell you that you are violet.
You aren’t a new beginning like the way white makes me feel and you are not as edgy and as beautiful as black.
You are a color of your own: bland, monotone, and incomplete. There is no space for you on my color wheel. There is no space for you in my life.