Persephone

She was exquisite. Rich mocha in color. Bronze in stature. Her eyes were a lulling gold that bit so rapturously that one had to take another look. Her hair swirled down her bones in long graceful waves. Her cheekbones were to cut marble and her lips were a fathomless red-almost pomegranate in color. She could be effervescently, extraordinarily alive if she wanted to. She'd twirl around in cloud raiment and sing songs of jubilee and eccentricity. She was radiantly auroral with more pigment and bounce than a daisy and more tempting and light then a daffodil. She was the light atop the mountain, the spark of flint, the drop of life. But that was when the air was pure and the sea was warm and the fire was out.

Once the glitter is gone, there's only darkness. Abyss. Void. Wrapped in a black cloak she collapses. All the melancholic sadness that had alluded her comes flooding back.

She's aware of all her faults.

Aware of all the hatred and disgust in the world.

Aware of all the disdain she has towards herself-

and all the death in the world.

And she wonders, that if she has to spend another moment like this, another pitiful moment-cold inside-burned outside-she wonders if she'll be able to make it out alive.

Of course, if she weren't, then that'd just be the start of it, wouldn't it?