While not deeply vicious, she carries disaster lightly in each hand.
(a heart can weigh less than a feather, if it's riddled with holes)
Sometimes-pickpocket, would-be arsonist with itching fingers,
(all-around equal-opportunity bastard, fractally so)
a flask of everclear in her pocket, fast hands made for violence
(proof of this written in an Ogham of scars on her knuckles, the slender white line cleaving her eyebrow so it curls up to a point in the middle, like a little horn)
she fuses pennies to the heels of her Doc Martens, a sharp click with every step, faintly wishing they could strike sparks
(she thinks this is what hobnails must sound like, as she carefully dissolves the super glue off her fingers with acetone fingernail polish remover)
because she's cornered
(and therefore dangerous)
by her own hunger, and in a distorted sense of fair play,
(Honour among thieves, beauty in brutality, the need to sleep at night? You'd have to ask her yourself.)
she wants you to hear her coming.
(Her body is the patron saint of want.)
Iron Noder 2017, 22/30