December 26th, Year of the Vampires

I wonder about Juliet’s life in Portland. We speak often, and I feign an affection for her that I could not possibly feel. If it aids in her recovery, then the lie is worth its price. Though it sticks to my throat, long after I have spoken it, I find that the discomfort is preferable to having her here. I am surprised that I can convince her of anything, as I have forgotten how to behave like a person capable of feelings. I take to watching others, and steal scripts from them. And isn’t this exactly what I judged many past lovers for? Avery tells me that Cody’s form is made up of what he reads in magazines, and I laugh. What else can one do, when they have found there is someone out there as pathetic as them?

These days, I am contained. Revealing only what can be deemed as acceptable. I frantically search for something profound enough to change me, refusing to accept that if I have not found it yet, I will not find it at all. I have said, I will not bend or break for anyone, but I would do it for my own salvation. I look to rebuild myself in the image of what I have always idealized. For what seems like centuries, I have longed for this. Here in the womb that suffocates me, here in the tomb that has mummified me. The pause in my breath holds an unintelligible whisper, an answer.

December 26th, Year of the Vampires

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