#1931

I know the hallowed halls of your realm as if I have walked them myself. In the bedroom which is your battlefield, I watch you wage war between silk sheets; in the bathroom which is your ninth circle, I watch you speak prophecies through blood. In the apartment which is your palace and your tomb, I watch you dance through death and resurrection and death again. These places are the temple in which I was raised as your acolyte to bear silent witness to the private agonies of gods. Like your every word and breath, so I memorize and immortalize the places which have shaped your tale – the alley where blood and rainwater mix on cold cement, the roof where you dare the wind to pull you off the ledge. In the city which is your essence, the city from which you cast a thousand thousand shadows, the city where you live and die the unending cycle, I watch and I write.

#1924

Do you exist without each other? Do you exist in the time before you met, when you lead separate lives? You never let me see those years.

Who was Will before he found Hannibal?


…we don’t ever learn that, I guess. Not really.

And after?


We don’t know that either.

Then there you have it. Whether the teacup existed before it shattered or not doesn’t matter once it has broken.


But– …I hate when you speak in riddles.

No, you don’t.


Does that make me Abigail, then?

That’s a riddle you’ll have to solve for yourself.

#1922

I have swallowed you down so many times, it is a wonder your seed has not taken root within me. I can almost feel it buried within the meat of my left breast, though, nestled safely behind the wall of my ribcage where it may grow in peace. Perhaps that strange twisting sensation I sometimes feel is the first little tendril breaking forth from its shell, tasting and testing the red soil of its birth. Soon its vines will go creeping through my flesh and wind around my ribs like ivy on a trellis. I wonder what manner of night-blooming flowers will push their buds out my eyes, or strange fruits ripen alongside my warm organs? I hope, should that day come, you will cut me open and reap your beautiful harvest.

#1921

I lurk in the pagan tags
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like
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reblog
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I need to know other people believe crazy shit too
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that I’m not alone in my experiences
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that I’m not Cassandra spouting prophecies
just to be met with ridicule and slander
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or worse, just a poor wannabe

#1913

It would be poetic to say I was raised by wolves, but not entirely accurate. Wolves care for their young and teach them how to survive in the wild, and I cannot say the same for you. Perhaps, if I may extend the metaphor, I could say I was raised by lone wolves. Wolves who had walked too long without a pack and no longer remembered what it is like to be part of a structured society. Wolves who guarded their scant possessions with ready teeth and would snap the leg of a family member as easily as the leg of a prey animal, if only to keep them from leaving. Into this disfunction I was delivered, the feral human child begrudgingly allowed to follow in your tracks and chew on your discarded bones. No wonder I’m not quite right, uneasy among my own kind and having always to translate from wordless beast-thought to this clumsy human language. I think my fellow humans can smell the lingering musk on me, too, or perhaps they see the way I struggle to hide my teeth. I do not fully belong with them, and they know it; I do not fully belong in the wilds, and you will not let me forget it.

I could spend long nights wondering what I might have been like, had I never known you, but why? Nature, nurture, free will, fate, they all flatten to two dimensions with the passage of time. Maybe without you I would have grown up seeing the world through human eyes, and I would not have this hungry, restless thing caged inside me. But maybe without you I would have died in those woods, or reverted to something beyond feral, and I would not have even the harsh manners you imposed on me with tooth and claw. For better or worse, we are misfits together, lone wolves eeking out an existence on the fringes between the ones who reject us and the ones who hunt us.

#1847

They say to be careful with spirits. Don’t summon something you can’t handle. Don’t play with ouija boards. Don’t mess with magic that calls for blood or binding promises. Make your salt circle thick, they say. Ward your doors and windows. Ground yourself and stop before you touch anything too ancient or too deep. But they don’t know what it feels like to stand on the edge; the exhilaration of opening your soul to the unknown and daring it to send its worst. They don’t know that once you’ve had a taste, you can’t ever go back to hiding inside salt circles and candlelight. Once you have reached out to the dark and the dark has reached back, opening wide all the channels that lead through and to you, what’s left to fear?

#1774

I know you hate that I am not you. Sometimes I hate that I am not you, too. I hate these hands that are not yours, and therefore can never touch him. I hate these lips that are not yours, and therefore can never taste him. I hate this body that is not yours, not even a close proximity, and therefore can never hold him, command him, possess him. How worthless this body is, if it will never know those pleasures! I would gladly face the knife, the bullet, the suffocating circle of his hands if only I might trade this worthless vessel for yours. I would willingly embrace the malignancy slowly killing you if only I could stand before a mirror and see you staring back. You may watch from out my eyes, but this soft, fragile body can never be a true home to you; it hardly even is to me, and I’m it’s intended inhabitant. I want your body to be the one I wake in each morning, not mine, and I know you want the same. Hate me for it, if you need. I don’t mind. Hatred is one thing we can share across the boundary.