S’s note: I said GODDAMN. I love this..
They could not bear to let her go,
Mouths painted, melancholy clowns;
A ragdoll tearing at the seams –
Not quite mindful of the gap between
Weltschmerz and insanity.
For them, for days, she hunted twine,
And desperately laced through gashes,
Sewing at what she knew
Would inevitably turn to barren soil,
Forlorn and beautiful, a memory to hold.
And she knows the decay
That will wrap around her fragile wrists.
In a year they will forget the tears,
The tar seeping from weeping waves
And fingers will curl again, in joy,
Rather than this pretty myth called pain.
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