The colorful, beautiful and wonderful creatures of my secret inner world; watch them dance before you, speak with their silent eyes, whisper of unspoken secrets
Only while Isabelle sleeps, on twice 30 years of mattresses, dust bunnies and lost lives, death in every pore, like Ophelia. Only then as the monster prowls her bed, as I sit and hold her hand, trail her carpet, the walls and the sun faded photos of a little girl, up front against blackberries. Only then. You seem less broken then.
(c) 2011 Isabelle Dumont
