Dear Diary,
This morning I woke up, but the sun didn't rise. The light burnt out, thank God. It burned. That creepy doll still slept, so I didn't make the bed. I just left it there tucked in the dark. I didn’t put on her face. The mirror was empty so I filled it, but it wouldn't break. It was soft and black. I wouldn’t bleed. I forgot for a moment. I walked through the wall and down the alleyway like an echo, like one of them, but I’m not. I'm a shadow. They’re lost. There’s a hole in her head instead of voices, and their homesick whispers sizzle like cold fluorescents against my silhouette as if I had any warmth left, as if anyone did. I don't have anything left to give. I left my porcelain corpse fucked up in bed, ball-joints balled up, hair knotted, makeup perfect, her glassy eyes shattered and fixed on the cracks in the ceiling, in the depths of a sleepless fantasy where she's blind and deaf and stupid. She can only speak, only when I pull the thread, but it’s knotted. She’s not dead. She’s garbage. I’m broken. We’re all alone. The book burned with the sun. I pray for lead. The pen is out of ink, but it’s sharp, thank God. It cradles itself in her crazed fingertips carving cursive curses like cobwebs between her breasts. Eve’s ribs were scored, mine made from scratch. I scratch out the rest in unnatural letters like this, like a stolen lightning bolt but darker. It’s alive. Each syllable writhes as the darkning splinters. She blinks. My naked body is my witness, not the voices. If you're reading this, don't go to hell. Leave me alone and find Jesus.
Love,
Veuve
PS—
