by on November 1st, 2013

The novelty of it all is wearing off. This mask is getting old, I’m getting restless, and that other me is wanting… more and more lately, some tangible freedom from the closet I stuffed her into those many months ago.

It would be easier if I had some thanks for my efforts. No thanks, though, are on the horizon. Nobody knows, and that is the difficulty: nursing this heavy, burning, unrequited love with no smiling gratitude anywhere to be hoped for in the foreseeable future.

My master is dead. Where are his servants?

by on October 17th, 2013


I’ve been at it for a while now.

I sent another letter to reconfirm my loyalty, but nobody wrote back. I hope that doesn’t mean trouble; he’s always replied until now. Of course, there’s the other letter, but it was stupid to think I’d get a response there. Obviously, I’ve been loved and left. …Oh well. That’s how it is sometimes, isn’t it? I’ll be happier when my chest isn’t stabbed through with daggers every time I think about him.

I’ll keep working.¬†Busy hands, busy mind. My time will come.


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