Bitter incredulity binds me here. I am needles and patchwork, a fabrication. A lie. Nonexistent and playing pretend, yet somehow still awake in solid form.

Bound together with twine and glass.

Malevolent fate crafted me as incomplete, and a false sense of self propels my chalk ghost forward; collecting clockwork to hoard within itself. To create itself. A true being.

If only the Great Pumpkin had brought me a heart.

Suicidal as a moth searching for warmth, I sit in the engorged darkness of the Hall of Doors. Unreasonable panic sits beside me and I am its puppet. Alone again, the sky is bleeding and I can only stare, a statue at the idol of the prince that I wanted to be.

There has to be an easier way.

Destroy Once Done