Drops of Dread & Sorrow
& Cassandra L. Thompson
Hypnotic hands reach for me. Black Dahlia smiles (as if she has a choice). I reach out to touch her, wanting to feel her pale skin. "I am a collector of pretty things," I say, but I never can. Everything I touch disappears.
A curious girl,
She told me she loved corsets,
Found comfort in the restriction,
Solace in their curves.
But I never expected,
when I peeled away her lace,
To see the strings painfully woven into her skin.
I bring you to my lips. Like in life, your heart is void of substance and tasteless. I sweat it fluttered when I bit into it. Perhaps it was just my heart, filled with joy.
His lips tasted like rust,
Mine like death.
When we held hands, it felt like broken glass.
He wanted my heart and I obliged,
The blood like raindrops on the ground as I set it down on the table.
You are everything to me.
The unattainable dream, the secret no one told, and the life no one lived. Your name catches in my throat, and the tears build inside of me. You are forever lost in my memory.
She had them all on display,
Pinned moths under glass.
I asked her one day why she pulled off their legs.
She smiled as she replied,
"I like my men broken."
Can I touch your soul?
I've felt the warmth of your skin. I know the taste of you. Your breath has danced with mine, passion. I know your heart. I've won over your love. I have earned your trust. Still, I want more of you. Take me there.
I am frozen, petrified.
My inner scream, stifled.
My hysteria, mounting.
I can hear them gathered around me, Can picture the roses, the tear-streaked cheeks.
"Are there any last words?" the reverend asks above me.
When he sleeps.
I take his hair
Weaving strands into spiderwebs
Hoping to catch him
When he dreams
And take him into my nightmares.
Here is my bag of Malevolence. Aghast, you may be, at the toys I have placed inside. I assure you they are as hideous as they seem. The darkness shudders there, in this bag of ossein. Lest I remind you, it was you who asked to peer into my soul.
I searched for him in the eyes of broken men,
My hands coming back empty,
Until the day he found me,
Whispered to me his secrets as he vanquished my enemies,
and we toasted their skulls in victory.
He loved me until I could love myself,
worship at my feet,
Lifting me up on crow feather wings,
And placing me on a throne,
Built of bone and ash.
I can still taste him on my lips,
My tongue burnt from his,
His claws still in my heart,
As I wait,
Until the day of my last breath
And he comes to take me home.
Mist hovers in the wood, fearful. Raven sits atop a gravestone, solemn. A woman in black mourns, does she? Curious, death, as a skull stands vigil. A soul reflects in Raven's ebony eyes, suffering. Secrets flutter about like lost souls.
Your eyes are so comforting and gentle. I feel forgiveness in them. I want to sleep in their warmth and dream my worries away. Your eyes make me feel so alive. I know whenever I am feeling blue, I can pull them from a random pocket and make the feeling disappear.
Dalia stares out at the mist. Her sunken eyes tell a tale of the forlorn. Her hatred rooted her here. Years of loneliness wore on her. Here she will die in a never ending dusk. She will rot here, alone until her bones turn into ash, and finally, she will be free.