Our favourite transatlantic cousin, Taylor, is a hugely talented writer and Cultured Vultures think she has a huge future in front of her.
My voice was ceramic when I asked you to stay–it shattered without much fuss at the Eclipse. It was the genesis of my self-anchored vessel, and the end of my reputation as I-bet-your-mother-warned-you-about-me.
It’s not that I’m demonic, just defective. Hungry for things I’m not even sure exist most days. But you were my favorite stepping stone, and I wanted to fill the cracks in your concrete. When we dark, your face turned to a strange sad. I said I couldn’t be made, that I would’ve done the same thing. You see, full moons are no fun when your soul is a werewolf and you’ve got the devil’s mark etched in to your shoulder blade.
I am Ophelia. I keep you holding your breath until I jump. I operate under the dellusion that there is nothing more beautiful than being so passionate about something that it kills you.
I expected to be seen as an open house, but your ears never heard it as an invitation. You don’t seem to flinch when the rusty nails of my past tear through the tender parts of your heels. It’s not a buyer’s market in my neighborhood and these walls are haunted. I’ve been locked in the attic most of my life. But you look at me like these old soul joints hold lighting, though I’m sure I’m all antiseptic and could never be that incredible.
I’d like to meet your skeleton to be sure that you exist–bisect your skull and peer through your eye sockets, see how someone could pick my locks so easily.
Maybe it’s easier to burn myself down than let someone make a home among my insides. “You don’t have to think so much all the time,” you said. Sometimes I think you read my mind. You make me feel like, maybe, I’m perfectly fine.
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