I am in the deepest shades of red, existing only between the pages of this book, and the spirit of it cries out with what it’s throat cannot produce; a scent that carries across empty rooms. 

Of the cryptic and the curious; the gifted, the grim and the grotesque come we, come we. Let us, in.

The stars are droning at me. The great silence of mars sits on top of my head, how heavy. Like ghostly keys, I fumble with the last ledge between now and the day before I was ever born. The stain of my heavy heels is like neon blue, it transudes and drips up, into the hereafter. Regrettably, I die.

Once we slept in open fields, unprotected; unafraid of what wolves may wait. Don’t forget.

I want you to know that this is not over yet. I am not over yet. The walls cave in and the ceilings sag with the rainy season, but I am a house that will not fall.

Have you ever seen me with my hair tangled up in the night and my hands twisted in the sheets. Lost trees.

I am an incomplete thought. The one on the tip of your tongue, at the end of your gun; the red rim of the rising sun.

Don’t touch my hands please; I’ve just got them comfortably lonely you see.

I wake in the den of a wolf, spake into the heavy black night; a whimper crammed to the back of my throat. Am I the sacrifice, or the take?