White blood drips form my fingers.
I feel cold.
The crow laughs in the distance,
My hand reaching toward it,
Lips parting, wanting to laugh with it,
But I cannot find the happiness to even smile,
Too much work, to laugh...
And again the crow laughs,
Icicles drip and fall,
The trees touched with snow,
A blur of white and black.
I let go of the doll,
It descends,
Onto the black and breaks,
Lace dress kissed by ice,
The empty purple eyes stare up at me...
And I walk one.
My fingers bleed because the doll was already broken.
Now she's just empty,
The crow will eat her,
Another little girl heart-broken.
I sigh, puffing mist out from my lips.
More crows fly ahead of me,
Feasting on the flesh of old dolls that I have dropped.
...For some reason the porcelain seems to turn to flesh when I walk away...
Small, cracked hands, reaching to the sky.
I look to the sky,
Grey with winter.
Walking on,
White blood shimmering on my lips,
I'm ready to look for more dolls,
To break to shards.
That piece of wind stole my smiles.