Dear bleeders, madmen and deviants; all you black widows, secret sadists and fantasy fornicators,
I am not a pretty girl. Sure, if I pull a comb through my hair and put on my finest leathers, I’m something to behold. But I am not some peroxide blonde, walking billboard for Clairol or Estee Lauder, Calvin Klein or Guess.
I’m not some princess in a tower waiting to be rescued, and I’m sure as hell not one of those giggling girls you longed to belong to in high school.
I’m that strange girl who sat by herself, all dressed in black and writing awful poetry over and over again until it wasn’t so bloody awful anymore.
I’m that girl who all the boys secretly dreamed of, but also secretly feared would scratch their eyes out if they got too close. And so they called me a bitch or worse, hurling their insults at me, and I swallowed them all down, sweet and delicious pain, and I let it mold me and shape me and turn to bile in my stomach.
I had a horrible nightmare that I died, and was reincarnated as a corsage flower, and was pinned to the most popular boy for prom night. I was a re-in-Carnation.
The horror! The horror!
I awoke in terror, relishing the feel of my heart trying to burst through my chest, and licking the sweat off of my upper lip. It tasted like wine.
Fear. T.S. Eliot said “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
Be afraid of the dark, dear bleeders. There is more than dust in the corner of your basement. There are things down there.
Ancient, horrible things that wait… and hunger.