She’s made of ink and sadness, a figment of my reality. Black and white with a deep red stain. Her tears run down her cheeks, a paling veil of pain. I was her keeper, I put her on the page. First her fingers start to fade. Then her feet and hair. Wispy, iridescent, disappearing into air. Her eyes are made of smoke, curling gray. There’s no fire left, her soul has gone astray. I’m sorry, little girl, you’re not equipped to handle this reality. Sorry that I brought you here. She is made of black and white, a two dimensional reflection of ourselves. Her chest begins to dissipate. Maybe it was fate...all that’s left are two dark and inky eyes, begging me to draw her back in full.
Made of Ink
May 4, 2018