30 Consecutive Days of Blogging (XIX)
From "Children, 1801":
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Scorched skin & broiled bone warm my mouth. He stopped at the door. The door was shut but happened to be open. Little girl, little feet. Breathing fast. Patted the dirty old bone. I believe an image. I think of a doll & my scorched face. I believe the hand is a work of art; art is the work of a doll. I expected the doll to say: Pity on you, little girl. Leave me with what I have done. Off & away they went. Father was a father, & soon he was gone & done. I was dry again, like eyes & a burned doll. My head went out for an evening walk. All was done. They hung me.
**************************************************************************************
Scorched skin & broiled bone warm my mouth. He stopped at the door. The door was shut but happened to be open. Little girl, little feet. Breathing fast. Patted the dirty old bone. I believe an image. I think of a doll & my scorched face. I believe the hand is a work of art; art is the work of a doll. I expected the doll to say: Pity on you, little girl. Leave me with what I have done. Off & away they went. Father was a father, & soon he was gone & done. I was dry again, like eyes & a burned doll. My head went out for an evening walk. All was done. They hung me.
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