Friday, May 27, 2011


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.

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