I miss my porcelain doll. It's like a hymn that echoes in my head during periods of my life that stretch silent. I miss her tiny broken nose. Her tiny snagging lip piercing. The mild vanilla and mint of her hair. I think of empty apartments lined with what-should-have-been. Sometimes at night, in the quiet of the evening, and against the hum of domestic electronics, I stare at nothing. Eyes focused on some imaginary place between me and an illuminated list of irrelevant names. And I can't feel my hands. And I just feel sad and a bit incomplete. And I don't know if that makes me real, or weak.
11:09 a.m. - 2018-02-05
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
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