Sing a song for Giles Corey, pressed down for all eternity. Sing a song for those who breathed their last on Gallows Hill. Sing for those that lied, and those that suffered as a result.
“If you have ghosts, then you have everything.”
Every lost moment adds up, and someone must keep track of its weight. I write in journals, hoping it has a beneficial and therapeutic effect in my life. There is no evidence of this yet, but I cling to my habits. I am still nothing more than a woman marked with graffiti, waiting to be painted over. If I want a boat to sail on, I suppose it is time to build it.
“If you call it surprise there it is.”
I can see my shape in every vision I have. Dreams do, in fact, have an expiration date. Hoping for anything at all, seeps out of a puncture wound in my self-confidence. When nightfall comes to ask what I have done with the daylight hours I was gifted with, I am as silent as a tongueless martyr.
“I don’t want my fangs too long.”
I pour salt water on my wounds, so that even with youth left, I am a blistering ogre. What one has lived through is supposed to impress those privy to the details. Look at that one’s fortitude and resiliency, they’ll say. But what is truly notable, is what one is able to overcome. There is a difference.
“The moon to the left of me, is a part of my thoughts, is a part of me, is me.”