daisies_in_chains | Always Bleeding On The Marigolds

Run and catch... Run and catch... The lamb is caught in the blackberry patch...

But I don't see none here. I only see the lambs. Little lost lambs, all of a shiver and burnt to roast, crispy never-ends. Thankful for the privelage, you should be, say the whispers. Thankful no more, says I.

Can't get the cat through no window, see. Not unless it's smashed and then it ends up all bleedy. They screech and they scratch and don't even paddle in no water, if they're held too tight.

But that's how it was, see. That's how it was, when the blankets came to smother. Princess knows what that's like.

Little hands.

Little feet.

Head all gone over one side.

Children don't work right. Not when they're like that. Just little puppets.

But puppets can be stringed, can't they?

STRINGED. BROKEN. DASHED.

Daddy?

It's gone ALL COLD... Just like how you made Princess.

Do you remember, my Angel? Remember how you made me?