aethe

A mess of broken, uneven candlesticks have been thrown together carelessly to shape her lonely, aged figure. They are tied together weakly by the tangled floss and fishing line that are the remains of her once strong muscles. Strips of her skin clump together and fall obediently around her twisted hands, hands she uses to open peanut butter jars with, to cut my apples for me, to match white socks with white. My arms look so pale and perfect, like plastic, compared to the rugged terrains that are hers. Rivers of dark purple veins flow in every direction, clinging on to every bit of flesh they can. Her hair is as sparse as a desert and white