“She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself; her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening.”
Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber
The rice barn abandoned, darkness emerges. Only fragile insects remain.
Rarely, tiny bird bones glisten from the dust.
Are you brave enough to see beyond that dream we call reality?
Then you might catch her shadow, feel her icy breath. Cool as metal on your shoulder.
Pale and intact as the moon, her fingers blackened from the struggle.
Bound in gold and silver chains. Razor blades and a-thousand-year-old crystals, hanging from her limbs and neck.
She will reach out for your presence, all at once wrapped in light. Circling with shimmering vanity.
Just as swift all willow-like, fading in the darkness.
Dissolved by the dream.
This dream both wise and fools have named
Reality
