VIII: Scrawl

VII: Scrawl

 

Found scrawling from inside my grey and dying mind.

 

I AM RIBBON. A FLUTTERING OF CLOTH IN AN IMPOSSIBLE BREEZE, AND CHALLENGED INTO RIVETS AND CUTICLES OF FABRIC.

I AM RIBBON. LOCKED FOREVER INSIDE THE TIN WHICH HOLDS NOT CHILDISH SECRETS AND ADULT RELISHES BUT A HAYSTACK OF EMBROIDERY MUST-HAVES.

I AM RIBBON. MUCH HATED BY THE SCRUFFY AND THE EXOTIC, AND LOATHED BY THE UGLY, THOUGH CHERISHED AND WOUND AROUND THE FINGERS OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

I AM RIBBON. PIERCED WITH EACH SPOT AND CROAK, FOLDED AND HELD CLOSE, A COLOUR NEVER FAR AWAY FROM THAT OF THE SUN, A SHIMMERING, GLIMMERING HOPE THAT HOLDS THE CORSET STRINGS FROM FALLING.

I AM RIBBON.

 

IX: Scrawl

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