your angel without wings

until they're right in front of you

after almost ten years of separation

estranged from the only familiar place

the source of all this madness streaming from my mind

seeking bodies and admiration to feel connected

a sense of purpose once thriving, choked, died

to be resurrected, regarded a god amidst the insurrection

lay in bed with lucy and karma and a fist full of temptation

my greatest weakness is restraint

who should regret a midnight plunge into a miniature lake?

who would reject hands that illuminate the parts of us that have withered?

are we getting old or is it just the end of our shift?

burn this frame to return back to the larger one

taking memories with us wherever we go

if ever we go

before the birds start tweeting

Claudia's death, and the overwhelming grief and regret her parents experience because of it, is quite literally the point of the entire story. she dies because Anne's daughter Michele died of leukemia when she was five years old and there was nothing she or her husband could do to prevent it.

writing IWTV was how Anne coped with the unimaginable loss of a parent losing her child. she created a story about a little girl that could not die and then killed her anyway. Claudia's death is a senseless, unavoidable tragedy, just like Michele's was. the grief that haunts Louis and Lestat for the rest of their lives is the same grief that haunted Anne and her husband.

so when you're accusing people of killing Claudia off to benefit a story about two men, please remember that in real life sometimes parents lose their children. please remember Michele Rice.

she's the reason Claudia exists.

I stopped believing in anything-- in your tears, I see seaweed seamlessly float as colorful fish lose their scales and their bones are catching onto shipwrecks. They tried to find your treasure and failed; they took their scraps and cast lots on their survival.

But how would you survive this wretched world, oh mother of sorrows? Why do you stare at us, asking for answers when we rush around in circles trying to find something that never existed?

The knots are untied, but the conundrum is not solved. I hold a sword to sever the threads, but my palms grow clammy, and sweat builds on the hilt. You watch and tremble in your golden finery-- seven swords have already cut through your starry chest-- what would another one do other than make you remember how you cradled your son?