Number Six

She sits pretty,

pink wig on. White

top, tank.

The sleeves off

her shoulders.

 

He had adorned

her hair with flowers,

creating pigtails.

Her eyes were glazed,

frozen.

 

Her mouth was partially

open, as if she were exhaling.

Blood poured

from her throat, cut.

He only did that

 

to the ones he loved.

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About blackwinterrosethorn

I am an artist and a writer whose living in Virginia. I go to Hollins University and I am a double minor in Creative Writing and Music. I've been writing for about eleven or twelve years. I've been singing forever and I have been drawing and painting for four or five years. I am open to doing commissions and collaborative pieces. View all posts by blackwinterrosethorn

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