Hello. It's Day Thirteen!
I know this and the next one is coming up a couple days late, but I've been slogging just a wee bit more than usual, so pardon me. So I'm going to keep this one rather simple and jot down some of my favourite things I worded and are still date so very close to my heart.
For when will the world comprehend, Each of them rocks formed ludicrously, was only, Creek trying to break his way through the mountains' many hearts, The many hearts she granted to be broken, For someone could fathom, The beauty of breaking hearts, and letting their, Own Creek through,
The moss of the lamps reminded him of the unripeness of the bedroom doors he squirrelled behind, each night, when the clock struck ten, and his old man in turn struck any visible hide he could find on her body. He'd kill her and bring her back from the white light, time and again. Time and again, he'd push her, praise her, need her. He'd destruct her piece by piece, and make her whole again, until both were gasping for breaths. He'd seen the old man's welts across her back, his nibbles along her neck, his whorls on her wrists, and fallen in love with her strength.
I knew it had ended the moment his deftly fingers halted the rasping between the charcoal and paint together. I covered up and all that hung between us was the heavy odourlessness of the acrylics. In a room full of leaping tints, he placed my carefully a notch up, darker than forever. I turned the money laden envelope on my way out, and unmanned its folds. I could smell rose from the petal left in there; the sepal the only colour between us today,
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.