When Jesus walked into the nuthouse, I knew things would get interesting. Our savior wore a muddy gray t-shirt, a pair of ripped jeans my mother would never allow past her seasonal welcome mat, and a pair of really rad, orange converse.
Isabella was a single white rose in the midst of half a dozen red ones. Held together by pin and lace, like a delicate, porcelain doll, she paused. Would she melt away if anyone spilled crimson wine on her ivory silhouette?