Motes PlayedA Post-Self Story

She died at play, Gamboled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turk Upon a Couch of flowers.   Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill Yesterday, and Today, Her vestments as the silver fleece — Her countenance as spray.

  — Emily Dickinson


To The Lament, who offered me reclamation.
— Madison Rye Progress


Content Notes

Contains mentions of rough, but consensual sex with one vague description; blood; adult characters engaging with the world as children, unrelated to sex; themes of familial abuse.

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