wrap your roots all around my bones (смешанная)

Darcy’s five, but she’s already learned to read, so she knows precisely why her grandmother gets that weird pinched look to her mouth when she sees Darcy’s marks. On her left wrist, the handwriting—a bit loopy, a bit cramped, but clear all the same—spells out, I am sorry, can we perhaps talk about this later? And on the right, in crooked, hasty script, reads, Maybe when no one is shooting at us.
It sets the tone for a lot of her life, to be entirely honest.