Earth of Air.
Stay back or she’ll cut you. She will. “Just… don’t come any closer. Please? Oh god why am I so alone?” She’s crazy, she’s wild, she’s a skittering mess with a flower red as blood in her hair. She wants to ground herself, wants to hold herself down, but she can’t. Butterfly fluttering to bring you trouble, tattered wings that could never fly. Too many opposites make her– difficult. If she could just get some self-control she’d be as sharp as the steely dagger in her hand, be a driving force for whatever desire she forged out of wild dreams, but do *you* want to try to stitch together that crack in the sky?
(the girl’s a fool, there’s nobody watching her, she could do whatever she wants.) Rusted iron manacles can’t hold her down. Or are those stains blood from her attempts to cut her wrists?
Now here’s a secret: she’s so much more than she knows she is. She’s wild ideas waiting to be born, she’s a bright shining child of madness. She’s the rich potential of that impossible analogy that somehow, despite itself, *works*. The one that smells like a million dollars even when you look at it in the cold light of the next morning’s hangover. But she’s too fast for herself, so fast she seems slow from the outside. She’s not. She’s just… lost.
Poor crazy butterfly, she’s the only thing that holds herself back from flying.