by Claire Anne

Created on: June 24, 2009

She often told me that she was free once, laying in her deathbed she said it more times than i could count on my fingers
the same fingers that wasted paint on buildings that grew arms of ivy
and legs of brick.
There hung an angel attached to wires. It smelled of ashes.

She often told me that there was a fire once, laying in her deathbed she reminisced of the walls the fire could taint,
I said, Ready or not, here I come! and pretended I held a scythe in my small hands
still caked with red paint.
(was it paint, was it

paint?)
She often told me that I would die someday, laying in her deathbed she said i'd die alone.
She said i'd die alone. And she spoke no more.

She often told me that she was free once:
I watched her soul unzip her withered shell and walk out the door.

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