A/N: I'm thinking about making this the first chapter in a story. That is, unless I can't thing of anything to write about.

It wasn't right. She was too young in her ten years, her eyes too blue, and her stature too compact. Past the glaring eyebrows and piercing stare, and past all of the bestial, ugly things that were constantly filtering through her brain, it was blindingly apparent. She was a child. At night (I was almost certain that this was a fact, despite her demeanor) she dreamt of beautiful meadows and a gentle breeze, deities running rampant behind her lidded eyes.

And I would be there when she awoke, observing her from the darkest corner of her bedroom. I'd have been with her all night, watching patiently as her eyes twitched slightly as she dreamt her childish dreams, and hoping desperately that that boy would not awaken on the other side of the street to find me gone.

She was a beautiful girl, but a child none the less. And that was one thing that he was never going to let myself forget.

No matter how my fingertips yearned for the velvet of her pale skin.

(She's A Child)

No matter how I wished to taste her strawberry lips.

(She's A Child)

And no matter how strongly I ached for that beautiful golden hair to be draped softly over my pillow, she was still just a child, and a malicious overbearing one at that.

That rotting thing in my chest never really seemed to listen, always leaping back to life whenever she passed by. Whenever I caught that honey sweet scent that would drift with her through the air. But then it clenched and died once more when she was gone. If it kept growing and shrinking, beating then stopping, I knew my ribs would eventually snap under the strain. I wasn't used to having a heart. It was irritating, the subtle changes in my body and mind when she was near. It was like being out of control. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with the wind blowing demons at your back. I often found myself angry over my weakness for her, my inability to refuse her demands whenever she set those beautiful eyes upon me, no matter what emotion they displayed.

As the years passed slowly by I saw the blue gradually fading those frozen eyes. Her childhood stole away from her in leaps and bounds and she didn't move an inch to catch up. She didn't seemed at all fazed by her changing body, feeling neither frustrated or happy about her transformation. No matter how drastically her body changed, for that little girl to be an almost woman, her glossy eyes remained the same. Though by then the blue had almost faded from them completely, her eyes still retained the glowing harshness that kept me planted by her side, inches away, miles away. And through those inches I can see her clearly, my fingertips once again ache for a taste of her skin, because she's not really a child anymore, only somewhat, but I still can't bring myself to touch her of my own accord.

Through those same miles I cannot breathe her honey scent, and her golden hair seems like the sun, burning brightly over that hilltop she said she didn't like. Because she doesn't love. Doesn't love. Never loved and the way she stared at me sometimes, that silent look of admiration always quickly replaced, never really meant anything. She wasn't mine to take, even as an older child, even as she pressed up against me on those nights when she beckoned my shadow from the corner of her room. She is not mine. She is no one's. She is oxygen. She is fire that burns everything in sight.