Their voices would be like clotted molasses, oozing and bubbling into your ear. Their breath, the dragging of tiny little pins, scratching across your flesh so delicate. Their lessons would be dark, confusing and mottled like the skin of an attack victim, left by the side of the road, mouth bound with electrical tape.
Their morning glows cobalt through a gauze of steam and fog that carries death and ash from a thousand trees. Their gaze follows like an enthusiastic afterthought. The fabric of their moment swishes about bruised knees like ties that bind. Angels.
Can't stop what's coming, can't stop what is on its way. This wont hurt a bit. This is the martyrdom of the chaos whore virgin. This is her final dawn.
There will be no exile, no madness, no death.