Not like all the other ones, she twists in the wind, goes with the flow, fluid. Ink in water. Smoke and spiral fingers of golden mane. Blue window eyes, too blue for paint or words, inhuman, angelic. Wrists thick with collected bracelets, hands busy at the keys.
Thick and red, framing well planned words, hiding pearly biters, holding hand rolled cigarettes, gentle at the tea cup, lips atuned to smiling. All technicolour cotton on pretty bronze, lying in and holding tight. A shiny thing, my secret, my tinkerbell.
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