It's getting dark in this little prison,
the one that people keep calling my bedroom.
I can hear the staticy silence,
and what's worse...I can feel it, all around me.
You told me once, when I was scared,
that monsters weren't real.
But darling, then what do we call me?
And all the ugly nasty things I say?
When I was little they used to tell me,
if I believed in the faeries, then they were real...
I do believe in monsters.
I do believe in silence.
I can't write with shakey hands
or a shakey brain...
but I can't bear to sit by and watch
as the entire world implodes.
She likes Charlie Brown, reader.
And she thinks Snoopy sounds like he snickers when he laughs...
And I hate saying that I really didn't know this
even though it's so evident.
And he hated it when people talked about him.
Just like me, reader. Just like all of us.
And still I twirl little ghosts around his head
and fall asleep guilty of listening to a lullaby.
Did you know that blood is red, reader?
It's red and it's human and it's fragile...
sort of like the stillness...
sort of like me.
