by Mari Ness
King's daughter. He told me I could love only him. King's daughter. Worthy only of a king. And what king more worthy than he, father of a daughter such as I? Out of that bitterness, green leaves and bark. Out of that bark, slow moving myrrh. Out of that myrrh, a lingering perfume, resting long in the walls, the fingers.
October 20th, 2014