🖤 ྀིྀི

happy black cat appreciation day!!! hug your local black cats!!!

I awake as my hipbones, sharp as knives, cut into my lover’s sides. I walk with nothing but perfume draped over my body, and he looks at me with nothing but disgust. Time and time again I have torn my ribs apart for this ungrateful man—torn my bloody heart out like a sweet pomegranate, bitten into it with fangs until its crimson stained my pale lips, crawling down my chin, my neck, my collarbones, until it returned to its hollow nest. He lights his cigarette, as always, and does not bat an eye. Eternal winters await, cause she—faced with the horror—chose to stay at her king’s side. I run, as I always do, naked and frail. A three-headed black cat was sent to me for company. It lays in my lap as I fall to my knees and scream in agony for the love I will never receive. I gaze at the creature with a virginal stare; a tear rolls down, falling like crystal. It blinks slowly. I smile. And with a swift motion, it transforms into my young mother—her knees pink and bruised, her fingers thin as twigs, her chest… still. Her cotton dress, the color of mourning, clings softly to her skin. She rests her forehead on my shoulder—her face so much like mine—then turns and leaves, as she always does. Such an ordeal I lived. I return once more to my man. He has smoked five  reefers now, his eye circles darker than before.  I fall into his arms, a masochist as I am. Such is life. Such is living.

each night a black cat with long fur scratched at my window. i never let it in— until one cold night, when the moon was high and bright,and the pale lady upon it was chanting. i couldn’t let it freeze, so i let it walk in. i kneeled before it,  tried to stroke its dark head. it looked up at me with gray eyes and did what i least expected. it spoke. it spoke with the voice of a woman i had long forgotten. she told me of the darkness she had found once the casket closed, the smell of lilies, the feeling of velvet.  she told me of fears— old and eldritch. she had come back to keep me safe, but look at us now— the opposite way. it leapt upon my bed as i let the covers fall over me. it curled at my feet, and purred, and sighed. "don’t let the nightmares get you," she said. and i didn’t listen.

A woman. Long dark hair. Blood. It all began with a groan— perhaps not of pleasure, but of agony. A knife in her back, or perhaps an arrow through her beating heart. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the young woman with pale skin, undead. Pain has made her so. She went out in the gloomy morning, no sun. Her lips— the color of a sick child— slightly agape from the horror of humanity. They noticed, perhaps, or perhaps not, that her body was cold. Her frail limbs moved just enough as she walked, a book in her left hand, a wilted flower in the other. She saw a black feather beneath her shoe, picked it up, and placed it in her bag—a charm. The smell of rain and wet soil, perchance even mold, filled her nose, but she enjoyed it. She reached the bookstore. The little bell with leaf engravings on the door rang out, and they welcomed her with a smile. She spoke of the book in her hand, about a girl much like her, a girl with a thirst for crimson, a girl who turned into a black cat. The old man smiled and handed her not another book, but a journal of empty pages and a pen of black ink. She nodded, and left. She returned home through the brown trees, touching the bark of each one feeling life beneath her fingertips. She walked in, kicked off her shoes, and slipped off her long black coat. She made her coffee, as always— with just a hint of hazelnut and caramel— and sat down in the faded red armchair. She took the journal into her pale hands. She wrote and wrote— of a lady with long dark hair, skin white as snow, and eyes gray as storms. Her black cat appeared then, nestling warm in her lap. Outside, the birds sang—mournfully, yet so beautifully. This is her story. This is her mundane morning.

The pale bride waits at the edge of the chapel, holding a bouquet of flowers that have long withered. She still waits for her groom—her faithless man. Her wedding dress, embroidered with milky roses, shimmers beneath the moon, silver and white. Her black hair is veiled in lace, her face darkened by smeared mascara, her tears running freely as she sits upon the church steps—still waiting, always waiting. A black cat rests by her side, leaving a trail of feathers behind its path. I do not speak to her—I do not dare. I weep at the memory of loneliness, at the recalling of the wolf. The church bells toll, and the priest at last notices her after all those years of lingering. He shakes his head, stroking the bones of her skull. She murmurs something—perhaps a curse, perhaps a prayer. I turn to leave. I cannot watch. For the pale bride will always yearn for what does not love her.

I was holding my body tightly, blood streaming down like rivers. Blood like no other. Flowers falling out of each and every wound. It was such a lovely sight wasn't it? A sight of pure artistry. It was slowly killing me, tearing me apart. Still people would look in awe, never wanting it to end. But if my pain is beautiful, then let me bleed forever.

"Promise me, when you see A white rose you'll think of me I love you so, never let go I will be your ghost of a rose"