Porcelain

A picture painted in red,

Crimson sliding down a canvas of snow-white skin.

Creating cracks in porcelain as the knife cuts deeper,

The bright fluid oozing out from underneath the surface.

Dulled senses are awoken,

Bright blue eyes regaining their ferocity.

A flame lit behind them,

The haze finally broken.

Pain stirs the mind and body,

Rousing them from their deadened state.

The more leisons, the more scarlet liquid,

The sharper the senses become.

The world is real again,

Fuzzy images sharpen their edges into clear objects.

Crystal vision through crystal eyes.

Slowly though, it fades away.

Brilliant colors transition back to sepia tones once more.

The moment of clarity vanishes just as quickly as it came.

All that is left to remember it by is a new scar.

Another crack in the porcelin to carry.

Too many cracks, and the body may shatter.

But one cannot predict which will be the last.

How many cracks can porcelin handle?

Someday, she will find out.

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