Dedicated to the old woman who tries to sell her soul every Sunday.

Delicate porcelain dolls, seemingly just as youthful as when they were bought (If they were real, they would have wrinkles stretched across their faces). Stained tea cups have collected cobwebs and whispers over small talk. An ornate brush which you would caress through your daughters hair time and time again, with every stroke bringing you closer to the tomorrow you thought would never come. Forgotten books, their spines cracked and titles unreadable; yellowed pages with a loving inscription penned on the front page. A rusting locket that held a photograph of your sweetheart and a lock of hair.

 Everything is to be bargained for at a meaningless price, a disregard for the memories they created. To be carried away to form someone else’s history.

 as if yours never existed at all.