My children have grown to become ugly. Larger left eye, bodies too small. Asymmetry can be beautiful, but not this time. They have not a bit of saving grace.
I had to kill the darlings. The bedroom floor is a graveyard of disappointingly deficient, dismembered dead darlings. I have tried to create more of them to compensate for the lack of charm of all the others, but they’re monsters, all of them. They always turn out to be ugly. They all do.
I wonder, now, if the stitches for this one other creature are seamless enough. I no longer have enough of myself to create new ones, and I must make do with what the bedroom floor offers. I am waiting for lightning on my rooftop; it’s so hard to come by these days, seeing as even the sky is bored out of its wits, beaming the sunshine or the soft light of stars that is expected of it. But isn’t lightning light too?
