Saturday, November 23th, 2013

The clock turns zero and the calendar counts sixty. Her fingers run through the white marks on her arm and a smile appears on her frigid dead lips. She goes to sleep and dreams about the blood she can't drop. The clock turns zero and the calendar counts sixty-one. This time, it's not her fingers who touch her arm, but rather her rusty friend who paints it red. She drowns her eyes as she sleeps and dreams about the blood she has lost. The clock turns zero and so does the calendar. Her fingers run to find her dreams were real. She cries and promises she'll never fell for that spell again, but still she keeps her friend in her drawer. Oh how can her mind be so naive and destructive at the same time.