I have nightmares of dying.
I know that’s supposed to mean that something is bound to change, but nothing ever does.
My ribcage is pried open so my heart can be reached, and the veins are snipped away with the scissors of a Fate sister. Blood red wine spills across my porcelain skin, and I see their eager eyes, as if they’re thirsting for a drop.
Vultures, circling broken lovers.
My soul is stolen next, though not entirely. Ripping it away is too difficult a feat, and the echoes of my screams go on for an eternity. The wisps are stretched into string, so my soul can be used to sow a story into the next life I live.
Maybe when I love, then, it won’t be a mistake.
Copyright 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
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