Mother Novak, bent over the edge of the bed in her slip. Her spine claws through the purple silk like the ribs of mountains, austere and lonely. You wonder how many people died trying to cross the plains of her back, how many prisoners she made from her grim heart. Your mother, with her glass eyes and spider fingers, a string of white pearls wrapped round her wrist like a rosary, praying into the cold silence of her bedroom. In the mornings, her room smells of dust and decay, like the insides of a pink lung.
thank you beautiful!! i hope everything is good where you are too ❤️
asked by mangostreets
eee thank you sweetie! i had a really great one <3
asked by flickerman