SEVENTEEN

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when you cut a hole
into my skull, do you hate
what you see like I do?
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when you cut a hole into my skull, do you hate what you see like I do?⟡ ⟡⟡ ⟡⟡ ⟡⟡ ⟡

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           At fifteen, she was delicate like porcelain, a rich girl dressed in fabulous silks with rough edges sanded smoothly by her softness and she's even put prettier under Hermione's porch light

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At fifteen, she was delicate like porcelain, a rich girl dressed in fabulous silks with rough edges sanded smoothly by her softness and she's even put prettier under Hermione's porch light. She's still against the canvas, and at times, Hermione swears her pretty mouth moves to form putrid sentences that the varnish muffles. It's more than a painting and beyond a hallucination.

Solaris Blanche is a work of art: literally. Hand-sewn gowns, white palatine, polished nails and cash money weren't as important as they used to be to her. Can you swallow three syllables down and get high on its empty return? Seventeen, seventeen, seventeen: all her life, she's been trying to be the perfect child, the one who kept her aching mouth pursed, the one who returned with a perfect report card in her blue backpack: it was never enough, of course. Isabelle was always better. Solaris was always unfavoured. To the point where she had tried to swallow rows of pills and drink it down with liquor, she danced on its hazy high and stood on the window's branching chair and she was seventeen seconds away from putting her left foot forward and let herself bask in her fall.

She was caught by her father, a rich man with the perfect child and the beautiful wife— he hated Solaris. Her cigarette breath, her sad mind, her pathetic craving to be wanted by them. He tells her he loves her, but he never really did— he wasn't even there to really have the chance to. So he took her arm in his hand, and murmured a spell to put her in her own empty canvas. She'd like to think it was his own way of protecting her from herself, but deep down, she knew it was an easy way to get rid of her. He marked her as seventeen pounds and gave it free to a painter he knew: she had seventeen days left to live, and her father was the one to decide whether she lived or died.

The curse behind the canvas was bigger than she had thought it was; whoever bought the painting would be followed by a curse of death and it's Solaris' job to save them, since she couldn't save herself. It just so happens that Hermione has an empty wall and a taste for art.

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