words #19

VII.
Three weeks later she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. A slight headache reverberated in her skull, her insides had been re-arranged: her pancreas mostly gone, her spleen taken, some lymph nodes removed. These things had failed her, so she slept while they were extracted. Her golem lent her clay and strength. Not enough, not enough. She twisted the top off her foundation and set it on the sink ledge, she brushed the powder on her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. She set the container down, next to the top, rested her brush on the side of the sink with the bristles over the basin, she was reaching for her eyeliner, or maybe a lipstick, when her headache burst, erupting behind her eyes, and gravity pulled her down, she fell grabbing the towel rack, pulling it over, she collided with the cool tiles, her body, only flesh, her strength, only clay.

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Feeling better, and hoping to conclude this one tomorrow! This section of poem, by the by, is a prose poem. It’s more prose than poem, actually, but it seems to fit this section okay. Revision may change that one day.

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