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Astra Jul 2018
Hand knitted from day one,
Afraid of who I’ve become,
Alone and unloved by someone who calls herself no one,
Invisible a talent I possess,
Everyone sees me yet please don’t tell me you do,

I remember that songs I use to sing along,
Now as they play I bow my head down wondering if this is that day,

They notice,
Notice who I’ve become,
Notice how much I hate this lady who says she’s me but called me no one,

Miss. No one they say,
That’s me, is it not?
this is the girl I’ve become someone who’s not yet numb;
again don’t forget I’m only afraid of who I’ve become,
Hand knitted from day one
June,4,2018, All rights reserved
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted chemical organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
X A V I E R Nov 2014
Bring your body and give it
as if it's a weekly allowance,
a favor you owe or do you,
perhaps, yearn for a place
back inside his heart?

What does it take to stay
warm on a cold night?
The smell of burning wood
or something more - your
knitted wool blanket that's not
just a piece of cloth?
It's soft touch became the
liaison between two young bodies
and let you truly feel.

Feel his gentle touch and
the warmth of his eyes.
Legs tangle and long sighs
ignite the room rendering
your knitted wool blanket
useless. Compassionate
whispers of half truths clutter
the mind as his head clears:
"Please, be the love that I am sure of."
Racquel Davis Jul 2014
When I look over at the nightstand
The little green sketchbook
I bought just before kissing Florida good riddance,
Reminds me ‘your desires are important’,
Because YOU are important

Flowers I brought home from work sweat on the table
The wedding was another blur
The event hall is always the same,
Pretentiously lavish
But the flowers, I thought
Deserved a second chance

On the bed lays delicately
A small blanket Sophie knitted me when I was five
She tells me, “Your comfort is important”
Because YOU are important

The round terracotta tea tray I had to buy
Sits, assembled with other superficial nothings
Displayed within its orbit
But a cup of tea every night,
Calls back my heritage

My niece smiles at me
From the heart shaped picture frame
She gifted me for Christmas
I smile as I pick her up from the table,
‘Your happiness’, I say to her, ‘is important’
Because YOU are important

©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
A reflection on one's environment, a personal space, a room, office, and all the things that make it home.
atptla Mar 2018
Walking lamely under a red sun,
Carved eyes and a faded skin, trying to run.
Twisted his fingers, removed his nails,
Hoping to be safe behind veils.

His skin had clung on his bones,
A non-aesthetic convulsion knitted by groans.
Escaping from shadows keeping a dusty pledge,
A deadly hunt dragging him into delirium's edge

Started to fill him up, anger and grudge,
He lost the faculty to judge.
With pain, opened his stitched mouth,
But knew that he was not allowed.

Tasted a dense sulfur while breathing,
And his vermillion blood began bleeding.
His sickly skin felt the soothing warmth,
A mild breeze came from north.

Became evident, shadows' faces,
He could see their stitching traces.
With a smile, wailful but silent and relieved,
Embraced his end that already conceived.
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
My sociopathic mistress ~
Initially she began contacting me over the course of a year or so and increasingly over the last few months she started visiting me, helping me, caring for me and occasionally employing me in different ways.

She’d just had a break up a few weeks before, explaining that things hadn’t been right in the relationship for some time!

She presents herself as respectful, thoughtful, gentle, kind and considerate and after what seemed to be a very short length of time; unexpectedly declared that she had feelings for me; regarding love, admiration, desire and some other adventures.

She then began to bombarded me with love talk; occupying around 70% of my time gaining my trust, I was swept off my feet; as she took a great deal of interest in me, learning everything about me, what I liked, where I would go, always asking what I was thinking feeling, how she could help and I was flattered and she was charming, though a little awkward at times.

As our friendship grew she started sharing her "back story" ~including some tragic life experiences; she vilified her past lovers, and ex-partners and branded them as crazy or bitter liars and troubled souls; gaining my sympathy, whilst securing my allegiance, and keeping me on side; keeping me close. ~ drawing on my compassion loyalty & trust!

During intimate moments she would sometimes seem a little awkward, false or acting a little insincere and I made allowances for this given my knowledge of her backstory. Re~ (The tragic life events & experiences)

She began to chose and buy me clothes outfits, take me shopping gradually altering my outward image and appearance.

She introduced me to her friends but was careful to keep me and them at arms-length, I realise now that she was building an alternative profile of me in their minds.

She soon started to embroil me in her own rituals and compulsive behaviour’s, explaining that tasks needed to be performing in very specific ways to prevent her getting distressed!

She made many promises :
"The hook"
It was my expectation i.e. waiting for some of those promises to materialise that kept me hanging on; This increased her control and exited her too. (None of her promises came to fruition!)

She gradually had a hand in almost every aspect of my life i.e. my home, my work, my friends, family, my finances, the way i dressed, the food i ate and many other things besides, much of which I didn’t realise until our relationship was finally over.

“Dupers delight!” ~ She often took immense pleasure in duping, individuals or a companies out of something through theft, shoplifting, or getting something for nothing, a profiteer, a chancer!
To question or challenge her authority would result in seeing her façade slip and I’d watch her decline into meltdown.
It's at that point, she would lose control of her emotion, lose composure and rational and I would see her irrationality come to the fore revealing the real person underneath ~ childish, contrived and fragile ~ It’s as if control is the glue that holds her together, without it she just falls apart , she can’t be consoled and it’s impossible to calm this situation; and it’s this point she would attempt to regain control by “Gas lighting” me, she would distort the truth in an attempt to damage my self-esteem, to make me question my own mind, my words and any actions , apportioning blame, pointing fingers making me feel guilty, or using hurt, sorrow, shame or *** to pacify or regain control over me and my actions!

These episodes would appear often though irregular and I would always be deemed at fault! ~ She “never” took responsibility or made any apologies for her conduct; she would also go out a lot and lie or bend the truth as to where she had been; I never challenged this behaviour!

When the relationship was finally deemed over! ~
I began to see my new position in the cycle ~ she immediately begin to vilify me in order to give credence to her “New backstory”, I felt very confused, disorientated and emotionally fraught ~“Shell shocked” questioning, how much of our relationship was true and how much was a lie? For everything I thought I knew was now knitted together with a very complex web of loyalties, lies and half-truths.

Her pattern of repetitive and controlling behaviours have seemingly remained unchanging thoughout all her relationships!

Within two weeks of being apart she told me that she had fallen in love (My replacement) someone she’d had her eye on for some time, some-one she admires, someone kept in the background, a friend a mutual acquaintance, and thanked me for bringing them together.
The grooming of her new lover would have come about in exactly the same way as previously described. It's her "MO"!
(Her pattern of behaviours, her techniques are fixed.)

Her parting statement to me was ~ just a playful stab at my heart; in the hope of provoking a negative response which would then serve to validate her new "back story".

She’s incredibly self-conscious, her biggest fear is that other people will find out about her true demeanour, her image and appearance is everything to her.
(She's afraid that people will shun her for being so very different)

Full circle~
I too must join the ranks of the discredited; labelled a liar, troubled, bitter and crazy.

She then secretly contacted my friends, family, fellow musicians.

I suspect that she may even attempt to vilify me with authorities or threaten some form of legal action as she has to others in the past!

I'm still drawn to her despite my knowledge of her sociopathic nature, and all the things that go with it ~ her constant need for attention, her lies, her infidelity and her deceit and I feel no malice towards her.
I'm intrigued  bewitched by the person hiding underneath the façade!
I know that person is far more interesting, beguiling and attractive than the façade!

Now the dust has settled ~
I’ve somehow remained sound of mind, I don’t feel guilty and I’m aware that I’ve been manipulated into thinking and acting in ways that don’t truly represent my character and that I’m just one of many people seduced by a sociopath! ~ Just another natural human variant , a person devoid of true empathy (for others) and that has developed a narrow set of skills and mirroring behaviours, which allow her to blend into mainstream society in order to feel safe, secure and in control!

She would have preferred to add me to the hareem a bank of beguiled individuals that are occasionally called upon,; kept on the back burner in order for her to use in the future or simply to monitor and re-assess her handwork and power over me.

The last time i saw her she began with nervous politeness and finished with veiled cruelty, I left this experience feeling drained, uncomfortable and quite fazed.

I hoped this incite would help myself and others to understand whats transpired once they're hooked; though i'm sure the next person will ignore any pre-warnings as just ramblings.

Individuals are driven by the natural pursuit of love, *** and romance rather than following advice of seemingly bitter ex...

One reason you and I might attract the attention of a sociopath is because we shine like stars !
Stars are both attractive and enhance the image and status of the people around them.

A  sociopath will orbit a shiny star draining its energy until its a done before slingshoting to a larger more attractive orbit!
*** is simply a tool for manipulation or pleasure;
There is no love or empathy only stepping stones!

Good luck brothers & sisters.
She loves to watch you ***!
SteamPhunk Aug 2018
I just want to take a train,
Just go,
Go to another city and explore it by myself,
With music playing in my ears,
Sit in a cafe,
Sip some tea,
While reading a book,
Take Polaroids of famous landmarks,
Talk with the people who live there,
Learn about what they think of life,
Learn their stories,

I just want to travel,
To an isolated coastal town,
Where the waves crash up against the cliffs,
Where it's always a little rainy and dreary,
And the green is so green with the morning dew,
And the houses are always small and cozy,
And smell like fresh bread and old books,
And it's always perpetually foggy outside,
And I can wear hand-knitted sweaters forever,
And I can read anthologies of old poetry by the fireplace or in the garden,
And it sort of just smells ancient,
And everybody just minds their own business,
And life is peaceful and good,
And every now and again I cycle to the nearest village and go shopping,

This is the life I dream about...
Deb Jones Jan 4
We help the parents to hold their child one last time.

Sometimes it’s the only time they get to hold her while she lives

Trying to help them survive is to sacrifice human touch

When her heartbeat stops
The parents are in shock

Even knowing it’s going to happen
Doesn’t help them much

We usher them gently out

The baby lies an ashen gray
The nails of her fingers turning dark

We turn off the machine
That kept her alive

We remove the tube
That held her last breath

We gently remove the tape
That held the feeding tube in her nose

We unwrap the blanket
And take off the electrodes

We take off the sensor on her toes
No need to see her oxygen is now zero

We wash her gently with warm water
Using cold water would be cruel

We get the “Memory Box”
And prepare the plaster

We take impressions of her
Hands and feet

We put a tiny diaper on her
A little bigger than my thumb

You would think that didn’t matter
But it does.

We add a little bracelet
Of her name made with beads

We take a laminated card
Where poetry is written

We dress her in clothes the Parents have brought.

Such tiny, tiny frocks
Beautiful pastel colors

We add a little hat
The volunteers have knitted

We take her pictures
A few of them

We put everything in the box
A diaper as a reminder
Of how small she was
The plaster of her hands and feet
The bracelet
The poetry
The photos
The name card
With her birth weight and height
That hung on the incubator before tonight

We swaddle her in a blanket
Now she just looks asleep

So peaceful and serene

We call the parents back in
To see her, hold her, mourn her

To continue to mourn her

The grandparents and the rest of the family too

We give them as much time as they want.
You can only imagine they don’t want to let go

We give them the memory box
To be opened some day

Not now.
Maybe not for months or years

But someday they will open the box
And they will know we took care of their little girl

They will see all we collected
All we did
We mourned with them too.

There is nothing so quiet as the preparation of a child that will be held for the last time by parents that are unanchored and rudderless.
I apologize if this was as a trigger for anyone that has lost a baby to a premature birth or some other full term genetic issues. I wanted people to know how we suffer the deaths too. And suffer the families anguish.
Skaidrum Mar 8
——————
i.
a dragon's claw;
merely leftovers of the moon
from last night's revolution,
and he beseeched a god long absent:
"how'd you forget my name in the grave
last week?"


ii.
i break bones like i break bread,
and hell recoils at the rare mention of me;
"—we're using blood for watercolors baby—"
'cause sometimes,
i don't think they understand
my heart.

iii.
god took the world to the doctor,
and asked for a cure he couldn't afford;
for the sun has already set in the palms
of my hands, o' father...
and there can only be so many
bones knitted together in this womb.

iv.
recall that,
reality only reveals itself when it feels
like making a fool out of someone;
and i don't know what stage of grief
i'm in—
or if I'm even in one
at all.

v.
i drink tea with ghosts
every other tuesday,
trying to make sense of it all;
because at some point,
—i'll stop eating bullets for
people's whose eyes
pull triggers.

vi.
mama always did raise me to be a sword,
and i killed when she told me to.
because, you see—
the fragile things die
in the cold, and what i find interesting
is that i've remained;
and ultimately?
it's a beautiful thing.

vii.
and when will i learn?
that mercy is false hope amongst all else, darling,
but enough already;
this poem's got universes full
of emotional baggage.

viii.
you said
you're a dreamer?
great, get in line kid,
you'll get a chance to change the ******* world,
just take a number
—like the rest of us;
but, then again...
"the world has always been ready
to receive you, hasn't it?
"
amen to that,
amen indeed.

© Copywrite Skaidrum
MJL May 15
Watching, I sat beside her
She again lay trapped under her killer
It was Saturday
And it was feeding time
The animal had hold of her neck, once more
It's jaws in a lazy grasp
A soft furry paw resting on her chest
No strength required to hold her in place
Claws deep in her failing will
Making it difficult for her to talk
To breathe
Nevertheless, she tried
With the occasional wheeze
She managed to share another story of a good life
A love "ever lasting"
Rich like angel food cake topped with fresh strawberries
She was thankful
But her pain was distracting
We ignored it, together
We played make-believe
For another day
Some visits were better than others
The beast lounging in a tree at the back of her enclosure
Watching us
Other days, smothering her
Reminding us, he is allotting the time we spend
He is in charge
My advice, to give 'em hell
Ridiculous to say from the comfort of her high back chair
Looking away to her hand knitted doily under her chai cup
Protected behind my viewing window
I know
She’s tired
And the taker of life is more than strong
He's inevitable
The sun will rise tomorrow
And it will set
Sunday will bring relief
Sunday will bring sadness
And a step nearer to peace
As our warm tea grows colder
Cancer, and the pain it causes... Glad for another day. Sad for the pain.
Mary Gay Kearns Nov 2018
The black cloud burst the horizon
spilling a deluge of ominous hate
The evil of nations, of people
And organisations, and of arrogance.

It scraped and swamped the rivers
Cascading each venomous paw
As it moved the land to death
The destruction of life crunched.

And Wendy just sat on the sand
Wearing her hand knitted gloves,
Blue, made by a loving friend
Then she raised herself and flew.

Love Mary ***
The image in her mirror is a beautiful bend in the river of Gravity terning God Flesh into tapestries knitted with spindle trees and the heat of exploding suns radioactively firing the Dreams my brother will pull from insanity
Do you think the moon recognized Christ?
Do you think the trees shifted for what they breathed?
These Children of God, sick with belief
Richie Vincent Dec 2018
I have learned to trust beauty that comes from my body and elsewhere

I have mapped out the rivers that flow through my arms and into my chest,
And I have memorized them and labeled them as “Something So Much Better Now”

I have knitted and patched up the tears and fractures in my bones, placed there by strangers who did not know themselves as well as they pretended to

I am learning to appreciate the rain aside from sleepless nights, besides,
Sometimes even the sky has to cry

Every evening I have taught myself how to tuck myself in again, kiss my own forehead, and chant myself bedtime stories,
And every morning I have taught myself how to appreciate opening the blinds and cracking the windows to smell whatever roses the bees are flocking to at 9am on a warm summer morning

And yet I know that the cold is coming back,
And I know summer is as short as a child’s attention span,
And winter has been harsh before, but that does not mean it cannot learn from its mistakes like I have, and still am

But I am learning, I am relearning

And with that, I will teach myself how to respect the colder weather like a mother or father

With strict discipline, openness, a warm hug, and trust
Chris Neilson Oct 2018
I gaze at a photo
of the 3 years old me
blond hair with an uneven fringe
blue eyes twinkling
at the freshness of this nascent life
a slight gap at the top of my baby teeth
showing through a natural gentle smile
a knitted jumper of a maroon shade
over a buttoned up white shirt

This could be an airbrushed cover boy
such is the perfection of this angelic child
but the year is 1970 with limited technology
the photographer an uncle or an aunt
just another kid in a growing family

I've seen photos of Kurt Cobain at the same age
we were born only 3 days apart
the resemblance to me is striking
he born in the rainy north west of the USA
my birth in the rainy north west of England
both with Irish heritage
both part of generation X
both from humble backgrounds
both journeys poles apart

Only death parted my parents
I had a settled loving upbringing
I never learned to play a musical instrument
I never joined a band
I never sold millions of albums
I never had a stomach complaint
I never fell to the temptations of narcotics
I never married Courtney Love
I was never the voice of our generation
I never made the ultimate catastrophic decision

But I did listen to that voice
I did listen to the angry, confessional lyrics
I bought those albums
they still spoke to me
I still listen to them now
I'm alive and still here in my 50s

I don't have much money
I've never had fame
that ship sailed without me
that ship sails stormy waters
that ship hits icebergs
that ship can sink

I give thanks every day for what I have
cash poor
love rich
She gathered her gloves from top bookcase
Those fingerless ones knitted by a friend in
Grey and blue, slidding them along the rail
To keep her hands clean and warm, cabled.

Love Mary ***
Thank you Jackie Carrier
Jay Dec 2018
they borrow your white knitted sweater without asking
claim its theirs
hand it back eventually
now with blue stains
that won't come off

call you up
while out with their dog
ask what you're up to
cut you off halfway through your reply
turnes out they only wanted to know if you were available
to watch the dog

mention you gained weight
when in your bikini
(no, you did not ask)

but
when you lay in your sofa
contemplating that
hideous feeling below your chest

you receive a text  
asking if you are being kind to
yourself
as you should

tell your mum
when you're not around
how they appreciat how you always cared about people
and that they knew
you were gonna make it

and when you're home
they make you laugh
so hard
you accidentally
*** a little

sure
it annoys you
when you wash the sweater again
that the stains still won't come off

but
it doesn't really matter
does it  
you were kind of tired of that shirt anyway
Sam Feb 4
I woke and sat,
pupils compressed against the window
like black olives;
watching where the sun used to rise.
It's cadence reduced to a vacuum,
skin sunk like eyes
in the socket of the universe
bearing all but a sign:
“even the brightest of stars
need a retreat to grieve”.
I swear you could have knitted
the end of the world
from the venom in those clouds.
So I let these nerves nest
in a bed of sorrow;
as the dawn poured me
back to sleep, indefinitely.
sadness rain weather heartbreak heart emotions her london
L B Feb 22
I spent some time writing a response to a poem that someone had written on commitment-- then lost it on this wonky site.
I'm learning to copy and save all my longer responses.  This one was worthwhile, I think.  Here it is with no apology for its content or its being prose.
____

The Other Woman

In so much of this thinking, I disagree with you.  Love involves so much more than  commitment.  My parents were married almost 60 years.  They were not in love for a long time toward the end though they were committed and attached. I was around to watch the steady loss with only the family loves and interests held in their surroundings-- to keep them sane?  

I watched the woman who came to my father's wake alone, weeping quietly by his casket.  I knew there was a deep love between them even though they were both "committed" to another.  My mother, as always, distracted by the "social," the appearance of it.  My father's honors were her claim to any personal worth-- His well-known name, his courage and heroics, his whole-hearted service to others, his children his wealth...these were the things she wanted from her commitment to him.  Too busy with her dementia at the end and all the attention lavished on her, my mother seemed to have lost my father years before.  I do not blame her.  I think we live too long for most of our “commitments.”

Truth be told, my father had several women  latch on to him in their loneliness and need to have their cars fixed and stuff a woman has no knowledge of, a widow and a divorcee, one unhappily married.  I know they loved him too--and in a sense, he them.  Not sure if there was anything physical between them. I would not have blamed them though.  But commitment-- certainly, yes. They were often at the house, devoted in their care of him in the worst crisis of his life, caring for us, supporting my mother through it too.  One knitted sweaters for us, gave me her family's violin; the other left us everything she owned.  My mother accepted this, unquestioning.  We used to joke about my father's "other wives."

This last woman-- was the smile of his old age, his Red Sox and drinking buddy, the one with whom he shared affection, knowing looks; the porch, their yards, the lawn chairs, coarse jokes-- a drunken wheelbarrow ride home, and all their troubles, aches and pains. My mother's church and chatter, puttering, annoyed him. This last woman kept him company.  Their love--so deep, so entire....  I could see it in their eyes when they were together despite their 30-year difference in age.

Now by his casket, propriety could not allow her grief its full  expression.  Only family ordered flowers, met after-- for "the dinner,” unrolled the pall over his body, paid the last tributes by his grave."  She was treated with loving appreciation as a faithful, loving neighbor.  My sisters hugged her, whispered grief.  When my turn came, I hope she heard me, felt me--as I hugged her, repeating,  “J_, I know, I know...."

I know I've gone on here too long, and I'm sorry.  I write all this to say that whatever commitment is, I don't think we understand the half of it.... Relationships, faithfulness, expectations, decorum-- fall apart in the face of true love-- which never needs to explain itself.
Irate Watcher Nov 2018
A copy
A vacant
A hollow
A skeleton.
A shallow
A decoy.
A dupe.

This is existence.
Entangled in knitted sleeps.
Red and warm.
When will the brains
fall into the wake
wading far far far
to lap, lap, lap
hints of silence
blue and cool
glimpses untold
but felt.
Inspired by a dream I had where I couldn't make objects fit together like I wanted, because they weren't what I wanted.
NadiaA Sep 2017
Ebony,
Ebony is her name.
Quite the character indeed
She moves with such elegance
Skin so soft and golden
I stand by as I watch her take a bath
underneath the beaming sun
and absorb every single ray.
Afterwards, she grabs a clean towel and
dries off her glistening bronzed skin.
Honey drips down.
10,000 bumble bees follow
as she makes her way down the ocean.
She buries her feet into the white sand
and, leaves her imprint.
Her hair stands *****,
as though it had been crafted to defy all odds of gravity.
Gradually, it blooms
and I can't believe what my eyes are seeing.
When she sings, it sounds like 10,000 angels.
Voice as calming as gentle breeze.
A tranquil melody.
With every word she pours out,
echoes the beautiful sound of brilliance.
She's no ordinary one.
Every single bone and flesh
was carefully assembled and knitted
by the Messiah himself.
To her, he gifted an Enchanted soul which would
be like nothing anyone has seen.
If only everyone had the privilege to see what I just saw,
they wouldn't hate her this much.
She has been tied in chains,
stripped down and wounded.
But why would anyone despise a soul so magical?
Was it out of jealousy?
It might've also been out of pure ignorance.
But after this day,
I'll be ****** to express such ignorance.
Now I know for a fact that her level of carefreeness was built on the foundation of struggle.
I think I might've come across a real life goddess.
Ebony,
Ebony is her name.
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