Words Nadia Brown
The Mademoiselles’ spines were rubber.
Shoulders hunched forward, bodies hanging limply,
resembling a wilted weeping willow tree.
Body bare, translucent skin, no discernible pigment,
as if the blood had drained from their stiletto feet.
The Mademoiselles’ eyes were pristine beaten onyx.
Glazed with a glassy layer of tears,
robbed of their usual warmth.
Soulless, bottomless pools of darkness,
wreaking profound distress.
The Mademoiselles’ hair was an avalanche of aged mahogany—
once liquid sunshine,
now resembling the brittleness of straw.
As wild as a jungle, truly untameable;
thin like cobwebs billowed in the breeze.
The Mademoiselles’ mind was clouded grey—
an extinguished fire leaving them stray.
Innocent and delicate, like a daisy inside the protective layers of green.
Bodies, once their homes,
the petals are now surrendered and brown,
falling helplessly like confetti to the ground.
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