She shouted her confusion into twice-cupped hands. One tattooed with passion, and the other set in stability. Between her tiny fingers, her lament turned to grief, purchased and paid. It stained her fingers and ran down her wrists in dotted lines of self-destruction. Only an experienced eye could discern the hairline cracks around her mouth and eyes. Wearing her porcelain mask once again, she could not but show her true face.
9:30 p.m. - 2016-03-13
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