[This version is edited. Thank you all for your feedback!]
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often she shuts her eyes: tanned half-moons shaking and fluttering and
completely devoid of makeup.
it’s cold, so her lips part and she exhales fast,
pushing the morning dragon out: puff puff puff.
she wishes that she did not
suck the blood from her pinky when she
cut it on a knife five years ago.
ow. don’t hurt it, mama.
she stands up, muscles numb. around the house she walks,
staring at lifeless objects lounging about:
those cursed fat boars on a farm.
the empty teacup sits on a table. she
picks it up, leaving
an icky brown circular stain behind. the teacup is cold, distinctly reminiscent of
the pale sweaty cheeks of the deceased.
it smells like earl grey and laughs at her. so she
drops it; it cracks in three: now it is dead.
her bare feet slip over the little porcelain crumbles as she walks by –
they pierce like baby daggers between her toes.
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thank you. ♥
