Thursday, October 20, 2011

the ghost soaks in a warm milk and water bath. her cold skin wrinkled and pruned. her face, slick and tight from the hardened clay mask she has worn for too long. without a though she holds her breath, slides down under the milky water and opens her eyes. everything is white and she comes up for air with a quick gasp.

in her sad and quiet house, she secretly crafts a plan. one in which she is not alone and not afraid of loss. (everything goes away.) the tighter her grasp, the faster the life she once knew slips between her icy fingers. she longs for warmth and something concrete, solid, reliable. adapting and growing to appreciate her own company is a challenge.

the ghost is tired of her tears. they taste awful and wreak havoc on her complexion. if only tears were made of something other than salty water, like french wine or (even better) aged single malt scotch.

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