My little stitchdoll. Whipstitched from bits and pieces of discarded down and leftover luminescence.
I didn't realize for far too long that my clockwork angel was so fragile and fine.
Each of my sutures that she unwound whole again was with darning technique spun from her own guts. Tiny threads of her heart pulled out a string at a time to sew me closed. I was too coarse to recognize the finery of her self-sacrifice. She gave, and gave, and gave to me; an infinity of priceless lifeblood cords, one at a time. Every reversal of trauma accompanied by soft humming of attachment and reconciliation. Sanction. Absolution.
It wasn't until she lay too still-- mangled and marred, aortal wires staining ivory hands-- that I realized the life she breathed into me was her own immolation. A self-crucifixion of a thousand strands that I took without the decency of reciprocation. And my broken affection was embarrassingly insufficient to heal her lacerations of adulation.
10:55 p.m. - 2014-12-09
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