I have fashioned out my worry doll of you, your hair and eyes richer, sweeter than the darkest honey. Now you are borne from my own hand, you cannot leave me.
I’ve sewn in a heart to keep you warm,— amber eyes to charm me— moulded lips from red Edam wax and pressed them into your cloth cheek. They do not stay. At night, my teardrops stain your linen dress a briny, bitter shade. The lines I've painted on you bleed and run.