Wild roses blooming
Ice cold hands around her heart
She died in springtime
It’s All About the Journey
Even though his whispers in her ear never ceased, she could feel the cold and smell the damp. She touched his face and said, “You feel like the Bogey Man.” He told her he was the piece of herself she lost long ago, and she believed what she heard instead of what she felt.
They walked together, his whispers in her ear, and she couldn’t see beyond the dark. She could feel the cold, and she could smell the damp. But he told her the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and they were surrounded by forests and fields full of flowers. She loved daisies. So she believed what she heard instead of what she smelled and in spite of the shivers up and down her spine.
They walked together, his whispers in her ear, his hand on her back, and she could feel the cold and smell the damp, and the darkness made her afraid. He held the silver dagger against her back, and never stopped whispering about the heat of the sun and the lilac in the breeze and he stroked her back and rubbed his dagger across her back and she told him what she felt was hard and so he slipped his silver dagger into her back. She felt the blade pierce her flesh and she felt the cold and she smelled the damp. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out instead the darkness receded and she began to see.
They walked together, his hot whiskey whisper-beads forever in her ear, his silver dagger in her back and his Bogey Man face, and she couldn’t speak, not a single word, but the darkness receded and she saw she was covered in his gobbeldy-goop and his hornedy-poop and she put her hands over her ears and saw that the sky was black, and the sun was dead, and they were surrounded by smoldering sulphur slopes and the spell was broken and she opened her mouth to scream and no sound came out but he never whispered in her ear again.
All lies are whispers.
The truth needs make no sound,
Even when it shouts.