Monday, January 27, 2014


Henry's sister, if she could read my mind she would hate me more than she already does. I can't blame her, the perfect poster child for everything ordinary. I'm Marie Antoinette to her vanilla revolution, she secretly dreams of seeing me on the guillotine but lacks the courage to put me there. Not that she doesn't try.

It's adorable in an Amish sort of way. She goes through my things when we're out, throws away my darkest lipsticks and the opium cigarettes Chloe left me, then pretends as if she doesn't wish we were the same, she and I. It's there in her eyes when we pass each other in the hallway, that silent envy she tries to pass off as contempt.

"Let them eat cake". It would have been the perfect thing to say and I remember my disenchantment when mother told me it wasn't true.

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