letters to a dead girl

dead girls should tell no tales

dear horcrux experiment number 4,

i'm a big believer the dead should stay dead. let their souls rest— whether it be in misery or paradise, who knows. a glorified god might.

in that case, i would say misery. lack of living is the worst defeat, and if asked what i would do to live forever, i would say anything. i mean just look at you.

i say all this to tell you of my trip to a spiritualist. i can already hear your laughter bouncing in my skull and see your grave try to contain you from rolling, a confining jail to trap the terrible noise. i imagine it's a losing game for you— rather unfortunate. always cautionary, (skittish) i had doubts your soul was gone. ghosts were a popular thing in my world.

you read over my shoulder with a judgmental grimace ruining your picture perfect face, ruining the smile i left there to mark you for eternity. stop it. stop it. stop it. dead girls aren't supposed to be able to tell tales— especially to themselves in letters, so put the pen down.

put the fucking pen down number four.

the spiritualist says you're not there. of course you're there, i'm seeing you with my own fucking eyes. come on darling, now is not the time for games. you were never good. always losing down to your last shallow breath.

you seem to enjoy them more in your after than you ever did before. it's ironic. you always would say games were foolish and exhausting, but you never seemed to find me that way.

you're exhausting me. my patience is growing slim as you were, moments from unraveling and snapping. it's too bad you won't get to see it happen, you always were telling me to let loose. it's time for you to fuse back with yourself— the bitter, spiteful dead girl and a rotting corpse together as one.

your ghost is an omen of a god's dreadful descent, and i won't accept it.

my last letter,
tom riddle