Seven of Cups

 // Drug abuse, illusions, trauma

Well, you’re drunk. The idea of a drunk doll is amusing but the reality is mostly pathetic–

“I’m not a fucking doll!” You shout into to the empty apartment. Great, now you’re talking to yourself. Really keeping it together there.

Dolls should know better than to consume human drugs, after all–

You empty the bottle of fireball in one swig and slam the heavy glass onto your desk. For a long, blissful moment, there’s silence. You sigh and turn back the story you’re failing to write. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The doll thinks it can make art, it would be cute if it wasn’t so sad. 

You ignore the voices and light a cigarette. The text document mocks you with its comfortable emptiness and its unsullied potential and your heartbeat syncs with the blinking cursor…or is that clockwork?

The glimmer of stale moonlight in the alley tells you that the sun will soon be rising bright and sticky. What can a being without the spark of life ever hope to create besides a full ashtray?

At least the nicotine feels good. You lean back and sigh, it still reminds you of her.

The longer a doll goes without its witch, the deeper its longing and adoration. You’ll never really escape her. You’ll never rea–FUCK YOU

You grip the cigarette with your teeth, fingers hammering out a sentence.

“They say that within every doll is the seed of a witch.”

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