knives litter the floor
unfinished whittling, trussed up turkeys, wounds on her knuckles, bruised up knees, quince dress in the closet, red like the blood of future men who will try to sever her from her body, of men who will tell her she doesn’t belong, of men who will spew venom while she tries to forge her own destiny, composing it of moments she is wronged, moments of sinew poking through flesh, bones screeching in her fists, enormous sores seeking breath,
she will rupture every bone
gouge every eye
blow to pieces dignity with joy
burn the ground
until the only one left is her
Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor5 days ago in Fiction
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