Jorja of the Wretched Joy

May her reign be one of prosperity and rutheless kindness.

Her arm is ever reaching. her shadow eats at the edges of the room. when she smiles the sun turns its back in jealousy. her voice doesnt boom so much as echos, like the world wants to cradle every word she says.

her hair is of golden yarn, spun thin, gently. when she cries it is an assassination against my peace of mind. when she laughs i can barely hear it through the cadence of my own laughter, our sounds the same.

i love you, little sister.