I chip away at the painted walls-
clinical white.
They say the color is supposed to soothe, but I argue that notion.
A combination of cheap mascara and a restrained, yet highly impulsive, lacrimation reflex has dried itself over my eyelashes.
"steadfast, firm..." I tell myself that I am, like my father's mother.
Unwanted feelings rising through my throat I shove back down to my hollow gut.
An artform.
The raw pickings on my legs have become even more vibrant in color as my complexion has become increasingly transparent.
After all, that is what autumn is for.
I soothe the crimson marks by reminding them I am "independent, feral..." like my mother's mother.
My remedies for a nostalgic, peculiar time.
Necessary preparation for the **** winter.
