the bird of war
Paint-stained nails and fingertips on cut, wrinkling hands sun-soaked and blister-palmed. Punching blacks and caressing flake white to articulate and bend and she rises off the canvas like a bird of war; majestic and hungry. The terrible can be beautiful.
There's something menacing here; like the angel that says, "fear not."
We'll dance again tonight. Paint and smoke and whiskey and these aching hands, bare-knuckled and chipped and ink-stained. She'll become. She'll become.
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