I know what She is. Though the bigger question is, who is she now. The much more important question is, where is she. Now. And where the fuck is her red cape? Her crimson cloak? Her hood, her cerise cowled robe? Where the fuck is she? Where is she?

The woods are burning, her woodland and mine are on fire. Still, I am the only one who understands her dead trees. I know them better. I have a better understanding of her dead trees. I know those dead trees better and more. I do have better dead trees than Her, that's for damn sure.

Endless her. There is no end to her. She is quite endless because, unfortunately, she is a source of endless fascination for me.

Most of the time, sure, but mostly in April, I kept falling in love with dead girls, Until Her. Until Her Darkness Goes, I wasn't in love with her. Until her darkness fall, then it fell, and I was in love with her. Then I was in love with a ghost. That's when I fell for a ghost. She was already a favorite but she became my favorite ghost. She was a ghost but she is still alive. She is still haunting me though only at her convenience. Whenever it suits her. Witch is fine by me.

Surely, she knows. It's funny watching her become an actual ghost, no longer haunting me, I mean, with her being so far away, she may as well be dead, be a ghost in real life, be a ghost for real, just not mine, be a ghost albeit an honest one.

Wise wolves are watching us, we are gone, I am fading but that's the part of letting go, no. Everything is changed, everything has changed nothing remained the same, not even my remains. But holding on is not salacious enough anymore, I suppose.

Full of fantasy, but at least she's a full fantasy now, fully fantastical. It used to be, she was equal parts reality and equal parts fantasy. Now she is only fantasy, a fantasy, just that justifying my rage. Whom I told her not to bathe often. She is just a fantasy now, unjust,

I never wanted muses or needed those deader mermaids, but she came sans the use of my hands and the skill of my skilled fingers. She stayed in my head, my skull remained the same. So. She is just a fantasy, not warm or real, unfulfilling, I remain unsated.

She is fantasy. What that means is, she is more attainable now but less tangible. Letting go is easier for her because what used to be is all used up. Lemons are no more. No, wait, no, she left, leaving me behind she left, she is gone. I am done making excuses for her. No more making excuses for her, no more excuses for her. It is not only that she left but the manner in which she left that hurts the most. I am focusing on the good parts like her brain and gray matter that she used to give me in a coffee cup, filling up the plastic with her mermaid's brain. What she gave was beautiful. But maybe what she couldn't give me is the sole reason it is hurting so much.

She didn't get it. But no more excuses for her. She knew. Because she said, so she said. Let's live this way. Why? No. I should have used this option more often with her. No, no, no, that's not what this loss is about. I need to keep that beautiful feeling to keep making the remaining book beautiful. Remnants of time we no longer have is all we have now, what we are left with.

Abandoned by all the cicadas, I cannot afford to abandon this book. Each and every day, I am trying to become less selfish, every day I am turning her Ordinary, but that's not enough, it is completely futile, she is still a fantasy, sublime, but she couldn't stay until the book was finished, she couldn't have stayed, she couldn't stay?

However, It wasn't dangerous enough when she was here in my room when she was here, real but dead. Though the stone wasn't warm enough despite being in her mouth all this time. it's not wrong but she's wrong in almost all the versions of this, in every retelling. She did ask me to let her go in my reimagining. I know, I am being deliberately unfair but that's actually fair, to me. This tea has long since gone cold. Who's drinking it now. Certainly not the White Rabbit.

Though this is not April. That was last month. Though this is not April, I am wondering if she is wearing anything at all, where are her clothes, or has she taken all her clothes off by now? By the end of this. Again? But you gotta wonder and the kinder wolves are wondering too, this is not the right bakery for it, but what eatery will display her now. She is all fake, she is fakery. But I wonder. Just. Where is her Red Riding Hood?

But because of that, I am going to hold that dream hostage, mostly because I want to hold onto that dream for a little while longer. Who could blame me, really, for surviving this dream? Her forever is not for granted, her forever is not to be taken for granted. But this? This cannot be mine forever. She did after all ask me to revoke her cold memories. I'd refuse this refusal. The thing is, here is the thing, she just traded one distance for another, that's it. That's it isn't it. First, she used to be distanced by reality and now by an actual distance. Though at least we are no longer being distanced by time since we are officially out of it, we are distant of it, we are past that by now. That. We used to trade books but now I have traded her for my books. I know this stark fact; I am hers but she is not mine in any way. That's all you need to know about the dynamics of this Viking saga.

I am not in a dead house anymore, but I still have the runestones. I can rub them together and still flip my fate. But I won't do it. I have no faith to give up. Sadly this is not sad.

She's being distanced by a distance fueled by her just cause.

But I had a month. I had a month to love her. Then another to enjoy her. Now I have a month to forget her. I couldn't do any of them. I am pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do this either.

I can still enjoy her mouth and maybe somewhere along the way, I'll forgive her.

I didn't hand her any knives, she is a knife, she is a knave for sure, she is the knife I handed to her and she went straight to my heart. But I'll survive Her. She is the knife that went straight through my heart, she was aghast, saying what are you doing, I replied, letting go.

But surviving Her.

Even back in November, her nakedness was so important, getting her naked was necessary, despite the creepy curtains. But I gotta admit her purple shirt looks so good here, casually draped on my writing chair. I am still thrilled by it, though her resinous scent is all gone, chased by the erstwhile rains. Though I don't know when that wetness stopped being wet but I am through with it.

She hasn't been a virgin for almost nine years and I have been waiting to eat her for over ten years, as can be vouched by the kinder wolves, a kind wolf, kinder than me.

Ultimately, someone else is fucking her. So why should I care about her? But I care about her so much, I care so much about her. She'll always feel like a ghost to me. She'll always feel dead to me. She'll always be dead to me, she'll always be my death, she'll be the death of my mind, always, she is.

She'll always be that dead girl named Annie at the start of the movie, It Follows. Dead at the beach. Lying dead on the sand dunes with a twisted leg. Her. Something always chasing her, no longer chasing her, No One is following her now.

It hurts too much right now.

She is not the one upset. She is endless though. She is not human, but she is well versed in the human condition.

In this.

That's tragic. I don't know how to love her outside of herself. See, expansion and expectation are problematic but so emblematic of this Thing that is between the two of us. Expectations kill. You grieve and you are suddenly in too much pain. Remove those fetters and you are still not free. But it hurts less. Since there is less of her now.

Expansion can be fun but expectations are a problem.

I am still going to fuck her in the ass though.

I am the one telling it but She has already killed me several thousand times in this Story.

She is still so fantastical, but real. Real Enough. But not good enough anymore.

She was always a fantasy, but she was real. What is real anymore? Who could survive her dreams?

Her aside, morning breath and all, I hope to ruin her delicious mouth, but I hope I wouldn't ruin her mornings from now.

Just

I need to let go
let go of that beautiful feeling
without letting her go

I love her

love telling her that

It doesn't have to be more complicated than that.

It'll be alright, I think.

Ultimately, I didn't hold that dream hostage from her. From Annie. In the end, I couldn't deny her that.

I can never refuse her anything.

I gave her my heart, my soul, my mind, she wouldn't take my heart nor quiet my mind.

She gave me more, really, but I gave her everything.

And all I am left with now is, anger.

So lost

I can't find my way

and

get back

or

return to our bothy.

Chaste Carnality

What a Carnage both our false hearts are.

Such Carnage.