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it wasn't the idea of living; seeing another sunset or somehow taking a drink of something perfect, that kept her moving nor motivated - no. it was her sister, twirling in soft pink and tulle, someone who never fully grasped the weight of the world, or the groans of the dead.
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Charmeine isn't the type of angel you pray for, hands pressed together in firm devotion - not one you summon to bless you in multitudes of mysterious ways. She's the one that appears when your soul feels like a creature without a mouth; the need to scream yet wildly unable to, when you're left broken with no voice.