of three ribbons, I sew onto a thick cloth what tomorrow will be— But dreams are the past, not the future
In and out, the sweeping motion, piercing, precise. A row of little stitches, perfect along the top, deep red crepe against soft un-blighted white. An anachronism, when the soothing buzz of machines efficiently slides down and takes over.
the tales of sullied damsels as usual. But check, check on the other side. The knots, the tangles, threads, strings
unstrung, the dark vines merging into patterns anything but lucid, swirling like liquid, not the translucent light of winter. The spaces, the unspoken, between the stories, hidden lacunae. Check,
check the backstitch. Under the rows of smiles of sweet red lips is a mouthful of blood.
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