Hello, New Year. You are wearing that same old dress. Those shoes are already stained with midnight’s wine. You are too young to be so cynical. Let yourself float, and take me with you.
I have crumbs on my plate, and I refuse to eat. My lover is artificial vanilla extract, and he says, why don’t you feed on what I give you?
I take him in bites, nauseated by the aftertaste.
American love is nothing more than infatuation.
I have told Cory that I love him, and I do not know why, only that it isn’t true. Perhaps, finding myself so unsatisfied by him, I tried to create a depth we were never meant to possess.
Let it be said that I am loyal to studying the occult, but that I remain skeptical. This wasn’t always the case, and I continue to write like a reluctant witch, because I best express myself when I wear that hat. I am all viper fangs, animal familiars, and Lucifer rising, only in print. In life, the magic escaped through a small opening, long ago.
It is with a rational mind that I try to find a reason behind what I have been experiencing, since Cory and I first became intimate. My doorknobs turn on their own. At times, whatever force is behind this, manages to open a door.
Late at night, my shoulders are tapped. I calm my nerves, by dismissing it as nothing more than a muscle spasm. But the pressure is significant, and the force causes me to be pushed forward.
Shadows are cast on my crimson walls. They are human-shaped, yet I am alone.