The angel witch baby, who used to think she can make a change, make a noise but the only noise here is the white noise, the nonsense of some ghosts who refuse to go on, who are fixated on some incomplete part of their lives - just like her - but skeletons are never free of trouble and this worm has already dug a hole through my mind. I caught it and crashed it and reveled in the sticky green ooze it had become but then there is the eggs - waiting for their time, waiting to hatch, smug and fit.
This is not migraine, this is foreshadowing.
Turn up the volume to turn off the feeling but it is green and sticky and it oozes through the walls of my mind. Thoughts are evil stray cats who have been buried in a cemetery that was touched by a wendigo. I can't make them stay away from me and I can't make you stay with me so, instead, I'm gonna light another cigarette and listen to the heart beats of all the wendigos that walk the earth.
But would you take that razor and push it in your skin if I promised you would like what you'd see. Won't you face the pain for the pretty crimson glitter?
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