His tears
toppled down cheeks like whiskey pellets - hollow and rotten. Empty cans clanked on a bedside table, too sticky to grace the floor. A heavy waft escaped a dying man's cracked mouth, and groaned out retreated apologies. Waste not. Want not. And somewhere, a door slam echoed echoed through the chambers of a lifeless, drowning heart.
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The child sat at the mirror.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |