Literature
None of us are innocent
Oh my toxic flower, my Venus fly-trap and late-morning oleander, my lilac wisteria; blue-tinted and storm-weathered larkspur, I found you underground when the world ended, for the second time. I found you with tribal war-paint streaked across your face, cloaked head-to-toe in gladiator armor, with a crown of thorns on your head and twin sea-glass flames burning mercilessly in your once compassionate and playful eyes. I found you, girl, after a six-year long separation; and it was a shock to see that you had managed to survive, of course, rendering me speechless almost instantly, after the dust of a nuclear disaster had settled. But that wasn't the only reason why you were almost unrecognizable to me, my mountain laurel. Yes, in an underground bunker, I found you; with your head held high and defiant, your dark brown hair in warrior-princess braids, your lips set in a hard line, and I struggled to find traces of the sweet and curious little sister that I had left behind. But she