why are you so afraid to be alive?
she arrived a fortnight late of seventeen, a lightyear within the footfalls lore. the cloak-and-dagger velvetine-hooded, blonde-tusseted mistress estranged to the sounds of youth. excuse me ma'am, but upon this road of wretched soil and anise earth, I'm alone. I'm but a child. a road-scarred siege such as yourself with an inclined hand would lend me surely to surety. If you'd be so inclined. I've forgotten my sorrows through mockery and mirth, made light my father's farming plights through spanish hills and italian seasides. my airy imaginations, they spot my consciousness and rot my brain. in a twinkling of a thought, I am a moontide witch, skirts and robes hitched up, bathing my ankles in the ocean or a ditch. I am the devil's seamstress sewing songs and serenades to the little five year old girl who watches me dress and so with adulterated egress, my voyeur episode draws long and I masturbate to her wide-eyed surprise.
don't blame me black wanderer. I am a soil-scented girl with dirty skirts and plastic pearls around my neck. I dream of parasols to bleach the sunlight from my dreary neck and suicide scones and peppermint poison teas in a metal-and-ice fissure of a city; big, bright, and gleaming. I've fish hook eyes and blood-engorged lips that smack for excitement.
there's grime upon this sodden trail and dew-colored moss and ebony stones, witching trees that snake in stagnant winds, and nebulous calls in the voluminous grey shawl of night. my house is over there, within the tendrils of the fog. but my home is in the valley. a skeletal hand to guide and probe the mist. take me there, Bone-Coloured Bridesmaid of the Watch. my corpse makes more sense than I.
don't blame me black wanderer. I am a soil-scented girl with dirty skirts and plastic pearls around my neck. I dream of parasols to bleach the sunlight from my dreary neck and suicide scones and peppermint poison teas in a metal-and-ice fissure of a city; big, bright, and gleaming. I've fish hook eyes and blood-engorged lips that smack for excitement.
there's grime upon this sodden trail and dew-colored moss and ebony stones, witching trees that snake in stagnant winds, and nebulous calls in the voluminous grey shawl of night. my house is over there, within the tendrils of the fog. but my home is in the valley. a skeletal hand to guide and probe the mist. take me there, Bone-Coloured Bridesmaid of the Watch. my corpse makes more sense than I.