By C. L. Liedekev
She can’t sew the thin threads in her doll’s dress. She can paint the face, the window open as a constant reminder, air inside, air outside. Her immune system a broken wheel, a poisoned limb, internal assassin - and I never know if the contract is open. Her life free of the needle’s new sword life. One prick, and as the tale goes she for longer than a thousand years, as I imagine the blood pooling over the plastic hair. The bright red a clash against the false hair of the toy’s. So I sew as crooked as I can and wipe down her desk, her walls, kill the outside as she teeters in her internal Holocaust. The death of each cell, each moment an act of misery and love. As all I can do, is keep seeing the edge of the dress, it’s yellow form as bright as her face in an acceptance I will never understand.
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