Ghostly. 
That's how they say I look. 

I don’t mind it though, I’ve come to embrace it. 

Accentuating the dark circles under my eyes and lips that have kissed The Reaper. Painting patterns onto my skin which burns hot- no matter how they tell me I’m cold. Breathing in smoke to create a fog around me. My bones are sharp, long slender fingers that touch hip bones showing through my skin. I wear barbed wire as a crown with chains hung around my body. My voice is soft and spoken clearly yet pained and slurred. My jaw creaks when I go to speak, so I stay silent. I move as if I've been possessed, limbs dangling like sandbags while I shuffle forward.  

But I don’t mind it 

As long as they smile

There were days of old where I wanted to be alive, trying to desperately to appear as if I had the same blood of them coarse through my body

But now, 

They shiver when I pass

And I have lost myself to the act. 

I play the part well as I find myself starting to believe. 

I am a ghost. 

The empty embraces me the way the living never did. The heavy coal-colored skies, trees in decomposition, and chilling bird song make up my tomb. I sleep on a bed of dried flowers and embers that sizzle through the night. I have a blanket made of peachskin and crow feathers which is often playfully stolen by souls that float by. 

My comfort lies in the outcast, forgotten, hurt pieces of the universe. 

My comfort lies in the dark. 

So I hold the darkness close. 

Under the branch of the rose bush lies a small locked chest, covered with carvings. Black blood drips from my fingertips and hits the chest as I reach for it. Thorns dig into my hand, the chest within my reach but the pain draws me away. 

Again

As dusk settles, crows call to me while the pale light of the moon guides me. The fog around me thins to reveal an open grave. 

There I lie

I lay in a bed of black, white, and gray feathers. The tips of them have dried blood. My hair is soft, woven with tiger lilies. Lips glazed with honey and dressed as if my heart had simply created fabric. 

Long slender fingers which hold a mirror. 

Gazing upon myself in the mirror I see myself, dark circles and lips that have kissed The Reaper. A fog around me which conceals the patterns within my skin. The fingers that grasp the mirror are sharp fingers, long slender fingers that touch hip bones showing through my skin. I wear barbed wire as a crown with chains hung around my body. 

I see my being.

I see my consciousness. 

I see them.

The skeletal remains of my wings. 

The bare frame of what was. 

I feel the pain in my back, the shooting, burning sensation that leaves me gasping for air. 

But then, peace. 

The mirror in my hand is no longer.

In the darkness, my hand grips the tools of my craft

And for a short while,

For one blissful breath, 

I am alive. 

Music of the Piece: 
open.spotify.com/playlist/62LZ9Lrwht1gnZvifVYKIj