“they hold a wake for me in the small hours: the forest’s children, with their faces cowled in cloud-veil, veined dark throughout with what could almost pass for mourning. alas — i am not dead. what lies bare across the altar is a mere shell, a husk i in a hurry have discarded — the heart of it still beats a song of blood, a rill of summertime, of something as distant to these hands as it is held within them to be dearest. here, i am Death’s flower, his poppy incarnadine — i fold upon myself, a shade of deepest sanguine, awaiting its’ rebirth; his lips shall press abed my petals and i shall fruit anew amidst the sway of our crop — o, how heavy i shall be then, how blessed.”
— a séance with the maiden
january 24th, 2019 / / lianna schreiber (via ragewrites)
