Submitted by nessastooshort
what to wear when…burning bright. she has a low voice that clinks and groans like liquor being poured over ice, her syllables leaning lazily like a still ship shifting in an inky night ocean. she smells like acrylic paint and the natural bite of sweat. her umber hands breathe life - into clay, which swells and ripples around her fingers as she works at her wheel - into people, who do the same, yielding to her, yearning for her. she has flames in her throat, her own esophageal kiln toasting ceramic shells into art, passion into reality, shouldas into dids. this inner oven roars so hot that those around her are hardened, made strong, her outrageous optimism the bellows to their embers. their hearts will always bear the baked-in indentations of her thumbs, which she pressed into limp cardiac muscles until they jitter-jolted and beat again.
post 71 of an infinity-part series
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