Mary’s cut-off FUCK THE HELL OUT OF BEN t-shirt barely covered her fine, pale ribcage. Her green plaid boxers loosely covered half of the second installment of the poem she had carved into her thigh three days before. Last night Gwen had reverently traced the raised, healing words with her fingertips, then ever so lightly, trembling, with her lips:
thrashing in the dark. Inside you
there’s an artist you don’t know about
I’m taking a break to play around with editing my Gwen and Mary files that I found from 12-ish years ago. :)