A/N: Hello, Death Note fandom. You intimidate me. Take this sacrificial offering, please?
Disclaimer: I'm not disturbed enough to own Death Note.
She paints her nails a bright, bloodthirsty red and watches it dry; hides her smirking mouth and her vapid giggles behind her hands.
Misa is a creature of the darkness. She hides it behind her blue eyes (empty; clear only because she is transparent; clear only because she is a husk, because there is nothing to see) and chokes herself in black, velvets and laces and heavy fabrics that stifle her. The magazines, proclaiming her pretty and beautiful and a misunderstood angel, an idol of flesh and blood, compare her to a butterfly. Fragile. Delicate. Flashing fake colors when it sees danger.
No, Misa is a moth.
Moths seek the light. She is of the night and Light is of his name, spun of sunshine and singing and praise. He is Kira. He is all. And she will seek him until her dying day, and perhaps even after.
(―forever searching for that eternal sun)
Feedback appreciated!
