Girl lies, raspy in her exhales, in swathes of creamy cloth. An antiseptic twinge to the nostrils belies nothing but the truth. Vomit, putrid and vile, paints her flesh and singes her delicate translucent lips: the exodus of vile lies.
What is she clasping at? Only at the last tendrils of substance, curled and crumpled in her weakened, deadened fingers.
Is this what it means to become a woman?
No.
This is what it is to become a machine. That is what it is and that is how it is to be.
The only perfection attainable is in the beautiful purity of objectivity.
Feather dusted puerile memories form a halo imprint around the bodice that once lay.
Posted 11 months ago with 1 noteTags: Fiction
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