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I'm a fountain of blood
In the shape of a girl
You're the bird on the brim
Hypnotized by the Whirl…
It had happened again. Another fight, another slammed door, another weeping session. It was the same thing every weekend, but this time, there was something else, something different. This time, there was a feeling in the air; a sadness so deep that even his alien heart felt it. He tried to ignore it, tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use.
Cursing vilely in his own language, he jumped out of the tree he called home, and stalked into the house. He paused to try to remember where her room was, and heard something odd. He followed the sound into the main room of the house, and was forced to listen once more. He found her sitting curled up behind a chair, in the corner. She was rocking and crying almost silently, though with sobs so deep they threatened to break her ribs. He'd never seen her like this; she'd always seemed so
Prey Upon the Weak'Damn it, damn it, damn it!' She couldn't let Vegeta catch her, not like this. It was too easy a hiding spot, and she'd only picked it to use for a short time!
Bulma crouched down, hiding her head under her arms as she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. When she saw the small bare feet turn the corner, though, she started breathing again.
"Mom, what are you doing?" her six-year-old son asked when he spotted her crouching behind a potted plant.
She sat back against the wall. "Hiding," she simply said.
"What'd you do to the GR?" he asked with a huff.
Bulma blushed lightly. "Nothing. You haven't seen your father around here, have you?" She pushed herself up to stand.
"No, but I did just leave my room." He gave her a devious smirk, reminding Bulma way too much of both her and Vegeta. "Do you want me to call him here for you?"
"No, no, no," she said a little too quickly. "Um, if you do happen to see him tell him you didn't see me, okay?"
"Can do, Mom." Trunks started heading downstair
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More