𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐎𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 - TMR, Gally

014 - Poems

Know that feeling when you're getting comfortable with someone and you start ranting over and over again, not realizing that you actually are ranting until they only reply with groans or tell you to stop?

Yeah, I had it.

Gally did not leave my side much. I was suspecting he felt bad and maybe because it was his Builders, he felt even worse. Turned out, he was quite nice to hang out with. Yes, he was grumpy, but he had humor and was kind.

"It's following you." He gave Josephine a sharp glance.

"She." I corrected. "It's fine. Josephine is lovely. And she doesn't bite."

He didn't reply and kept up a firm pace as we walked through the Glade, on our way to absolutely nothing. He just forced me to get out of my hut.

"Don't walk that fast," I ordered. "It hurts my leg and I have to walk super fast since you're enormous and take big steps."

He slowed down his walk. "Okay."

"Do you want to pet Josephine?" I held the animal in front of him.

Gally stared at her like it was some weird space creature. "No. Thanks."

I shrugged and held her in my arms myself. "Did you know that chickens have a great memory for faces? If you're suddenly gonna act nice to her, she'll keep in mind not to trust you because you're not nice right now. You said she was stupid."

"It's a chicken. A shuck animal." He sighed deeply. "Not a human. So if I killed him, would you cry?"

"Depends on the circumstances."

"What?"

I will cry about it if I'm on my period.

"Anyway. Imagine if you were a chicken and—."

"No."

"—someone says you're stupid and doesn't want to hold you. That's mean. This brings me to the fact that chickens bathe by covering themselves in dirt. I think that you all do the same thing, because none of you ever smell clean, and you're covered in dirt."

"I smell clean."

"I won't deny that you stink the most in here, but you do look dirty," I commented.

He didn't reply again. That was quite usual already. I smiled in satisfaction, and took my notebook— that I had stuffed in the band of my pants— out, sitting down against a tree.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm gonna write."

"Poems?"

"Yep. So either leave or be quiet. Your choice."

He put his hands on his hips and watched me brainstorm for an idea. I let out a deep breath, staring right up at him with a small eye roll.

"And don't stare. I can't concentrate."

He chuckled. "Write, roses are red, violets are blue—."

"No." I cut him off. "That's not a poem."

His arms folded. "Okay. Give me proof of what a real poem is."

My face grew red. "No. I won't read what I write here out loud. Or let you read it ever again."

"I didn't have the chance to read anything yesterday, I swear. Please, one poem! Maybe you have talent."

I scoffed. "Of course I have talent."

"Proof it."

"No."