Skeletal hands resurrect from their graves, tombstones tremble and shake.
Skinless bones and fleshy eye sockets reach out to me with cannibal intentions.
Thistles grow and thorns poke at my insides, sprouting blood to draw the cannibals in,
but I keep running because the ghosts of my past are catching up and the
witches refuse to surrender, stirring up sick potions the colour of vomit and
pouring them into phials for me to drink. I accept their torture because I have no backbone
(the ghouls took that from me with their claws years ago-I am a hunchback without wits);
only words-spells are useless incantations of worms that my tongue can barely concoct
and they mean absolutely nothing in a world so vile and cruel.
-Dragonette
