I pick porcelain flak out of my black and grey leather jacket. I seal the tips of abraded fingers, red from the labor, with cyanoacrylate. I save the largest ivory shards. Tucking them away into remembral pockets, like a memory magpie. It's sad work, forced into my aging hands from sheer abandonment. Or maybe it's karmic justice, and a natural conclusion to the story arc. When dolls are tired of being toys.
11:40 a.m. - 2018-01-22
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea