Portrait of Fragility

Portrait of Fragility (Original)

Tall, lithe, thin, and pale, she is like a piece of tracing paper. Her arms are made of bones and blue veins that snake across onion peel skin. Her shoulders hunch as though she is cold, as though she is lonely, as though she bears a weight not reflected within her breakable frame. Her ribs cage her organs weakly. Her legs are two splintering stilts upon which she shakily stands. They are covered in scars which no one will see. She moves with a shuddering grace as though held up by frail and failing moth wings, gusted by wind and torn down by gravity. She is a mound of ash waiting for a draft. Yet there is some kind of cold light which lingers just beneath the surface with a need to break free from its wounded and ruined body.

Eyes which burn like sharpened ice and freeze like an unforgiving fire stare outward from her gaunt face. They are blue gray as the sky before a thunderstorm. They shift back and forth as fast as lightening. Lashes which fringe heavy shades draw open and closed across these darkened windows to a darkened soul. No tears escape- they have long been banished in the arctic of her psyche. Her cheekbones create two barren valleys in her cheeks. She releases a yawn and a tensing jaw. She is sleep and waking; she see-saws awareness.

Her straw-like, ashen hair twirls around her fingers as they wring and wring and scratch scratch scratch. She has no patience for warmth, finds no peace in the snow white noise that rains against her ears, but hums dejectedly, distractedly along with music drifting in her head. She speaks with a hushed intensity like promises and threats, absent of pronunciation of consonants but dripping with legato style. She breathes as though her lungs are two defeated, forgotten balloons. She tugs edgily at the corners of the lace of her dress, fraying the hems and twisting them into delicate shapes like origami or paper flowers. But she tears down all of her beautiful creations. She is a ghost of a woman, phantom of her former self, clinging to unfinished business and mistakes yet to be made.

Portrait of Fragility (with Brushstrokes)

Tall, lithe, thin, and pale, she is like a piece of tracing paper, nearly transparent and just as fragile. [adjectives out of order] Her arms are made of bones and blue veins that snake across onion peel skin, slithering and pulsing like an angry, dying heartbeat. [participle] Her shoulders, defeated and weakened, [adjectives out of order] hunch as though she is cold, as though she is lonely, as though she bears a weight not reflected within her breakable frame. Her ribs cage her organs weakly, pitifully protruding as some sort of feeble protection. [participle] Her legs are two splintering stilts upon which she shakily stands. They are covered in scars which no one will see: connect the dots of paranoid fears. [appositive] She moves with a shuddering grace as though held up by frail and failing moth wings, gusted by wind and torn down by gravity. She is a mound of ash waiting for a draft. Yet there is some kind of cold light which lingers just beneath the surface, dying to break free from its wounded and ruined body. [participle]

Staring outward from her gaunt face, [participle] eyes burning as sharp as ice freeze like an unforgiving fire. [absolute] They are blue gray as the sky before a thunderstorm. They shift back and forth as fast as lightening. Lashes fringing heavy shades [absolute] draw open and closed across these darkened windows to a darkened soul. No tears escape- they have long been banished in the arctic of her psyche. Cheekbones high, regal, and haughty [adjectives out of order] create two barren valleys in her cheeks. Skin is stretched as if over a drum, smooth and white as cracking porcelain. [adjectives out of order] Stretched over teeth that stand like a row of polished white daggers, biting lips [participle] shredded, pale, and peeling, [adjectives out of order] snarling back in defense, releasing a yawn and a tensing jaw. [participles] She is sleep and waking: two needs in opposition, denied. [appositive] She see-saws awareness.

Her hair, ashen and straw-like, [adjectives out of order] twirls around her fingers as they wring and wring and scratch scratch scratch. Toe tapping, jaw clenching, [participle] she has no patience for warmth, finds no peace in the snow white noise that rains against her ears, but hums dejectedly, distractedly along with music drifting in her head. She speaks with a hushed intensity like promises and threats, absent of pronunciation of consonants but dripping with legato style. She breathes as though her lungs are two defeated, forgotten balloons, souvenirs of an innocent, effortless time. [appositive] She tugs edgily at the corners of the lace of her dress, hems fraying and twisting into delicate shapes like origami or paper flowers. [absolute] But she tears down all of her beautiful creations. She is a ghost of a woman, phantom of her former self, clinging to unfinished business and mistakes yet to be made.