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Rag DollRag Doll6 years ago in Transgressive
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Alone in a corner she sits, licking old wounds, like a dog refusing to let them heal. Pacing up, down, picking the scabs, punching the bruises, she sustains the pain, as a gardener tends to his flowers. Thoughts maintained as faithfully, she covered her walls with the beautiful romance of Waterhouse.
The phone rings, beep, the message machine takes over. Bitter-minded, she glances warily about the shadows. A voice drifts through the haze, burrows into her soul. Eyes snapping to attention, breath held, she glares at a knight on the wall as the acid words dig in.
"…listen, I just can't. Not tonight, tomorrow, probably not on the weekend, and