Gracie the giraffe
I dropped ink onto her skin of old faded bedsheet.
I watched each rusty ink bead expand, loose momentum, eventually marking its own boundary.
Some beads find their way into another—they merge—like stories we tell ourselves over and over.
Sometimes, just sometimes, when she sleeps, she keeps her eyes opened—looking into the dark unknown, instead of memories that expand in her mind.
Her name is Gracie.