I prepare to let go, though I know not of what. Every thought leads to anxiety, which builds tension, and my grip gets tighter. Often, I remark on what little strength I possess. Though, if there were any truth to that, I would be unable to carry the burden as long as I have.
It is the small things that have always fascinated me. Whispers caught by a ringing ear. A sprouting plant in the Winter. And this morning, I was handed the littlest gift, to warm my black heart. It came in the way of screaming, followed by a minor violent scene. It seems that The Corpse Bride has no more a handle on her lover than I did. His aggression cannot be contained. After referring to her as every vile thing that came to his half-brain, he shoved her in the car, and ordered her to stay in there until he decided otherwise.
And if I am evil for taking pleasure in watching her suffer, then hand me my crown, because I am still queen of the Underworld.