I hate making wedding dresses, but like the money. Tense brides, begging to be worthy of white, hear promises I don’t make.
One bad stitch, a single mistake, and my clumsy fingers will ruin the enchantment of their day. You’d expect them to use better magic, stronger, to bind a man forever. Those with the proper spell rarely divulge the price for casting.
Our mothers started a revolution, organic wisdom of the self. We tried to swallow it, but candy-coated romance tasted so much better.
A tiny drop of blood mars a hidden seam. I do my part for freedom.
No comments:
Post a Comment