March 31st, Year of Silence

The whore’s name is Lisa. My mother used to call me that. When my father chose to refer to me as something other than ‘you,’ he would call me that, too. I hate that name.

I care, but would rather not. The whore’s masculine frame intoxicates him. Have The Corpse, I telepathically communicate to her. Have him, and the useless sex between his legs. This strikes at my vanity, and it strikes, and it strikes again.
I have heard of those that haunt the mines. There is never any guaranteed safety, when you travel in the shadows. Illumination by candlelight offers no real protection. It is not enough to know where you are stepping. Hags will still bleed children dry. I am not yet convinced monsters only exist in the mindscape. Case for, case against. I never still myself long enough to spot the golden apple. All I know is that a loud heart needs anise. It needs potions and chants.

My body is still. It is an easy thing to see that I lack the courage to receive rejection. I extend my hand out for grapes, which are easy to pick. The purple, round things on the vines, slightly bruised and without much flavor.

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March 31st, Year of Silence

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