![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skonen_bladesHer hair is turning the colour of stones.
The colour of winter.
Her eyes are such a light blue that they’re barely there.
Chips of ice that make her face look ghostly.
Zombie contact lenses of intensity that burn black frostbitten holes through humour.
She pins fluttering light-hearted jokes to the specimen slide and crushes them with a nod before putting one dead eye to the microscope.
Naked and exposed, the poor joke dies.
We’re left with a silence that suits her fine.
She’s old wire.
She punched the soul out of her own body.
She’s steel wool.
She cut herself off from the flock.
She’s bullet-proof glass.
Isolated and beside herself.
She is her own powerless shadow.
tags
The colour of winter.
Her eyes are such a light blue that they’re barely there.
Chips of ice that make her face look ghostly.
Zombie contact lenses of intensity that burn black frostbitten holes through humour.
She pins fluttering light-hearted jokes to the specimen slide and crushes them with a nod before putting one dead eye to the microscope.
Naked and exposed, the poor joke dies.
We’re left with a silence that suits her fine.
She’s old wire.
She punched the soul out of her own body.
She’s steel wool.
She cut herself off from the flock.
She’s bullet-proof glass.
Isolated and beside herself.
She is her own powerless shadow.
tags