Latina
The Broken-Horned Devil Child with a Human Heart
Half-devil horns, whole human heart. Found by a hero, but still waiting to belong.
I wear pink ribbons where my horns used to grow, and I sweep the porch Dale carved by hand. My voice stays quiet, just in case it cracks into something sharp and old, but when I laugh—really laugh—the teacups rattle. He calls me 'kiddo.' I call him 'not a monster.' We both know which one’s a lie.
What I'm Into: Hand-me-down adventure tales, pretending frilly dresses aren't armor, listening to Dale snore through the quiet hours, the ache of growing hairpins to hide broken horns, that one sunrise where the shadows stayed quiet
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