One-Hundred Days

We are a book of horrors, a shop of demons nested inside a city of thieves and beggars. We move and dance in the middle of the night beneath a moon that casts glares of shadows across all the cement walks and endless streetlamps. We dance with the beggars, pale and slow in decaying life and love. We are quick and strange, weaving between ivy and bodies, fingers brushing against every surface we come across, skin and brick alike.

We are horror wrapped in the idea of love, pulled through every metaphor and simile of lips and bodies coming together in the dark. We bring horror a new name and face, smiling and cut to the bone, peeled away flesh falling into the river hanging below the body perched along the guardrails of a wooden bridge. The waves lap it up like life, desperate to be more than just flowing water.

We are the hidden horror of love, cast into the shadows by society and the downcast eyes that look away when we walk by. We are the proof that humans are not as lovely and perfect as they like to seem. We are hidden horrors, displayed by the laced fingers and sewn lips, smiles and words falling from crying eyes gazing at the moon. He is our judgmental brother, the sun our sister. We hide from both, keeping our horror inside of the shadows, our love that is too dark for anyone to witness.

We are the hidden horror of love and life, the proof that horror is beautiful and lovely as the moon and sun shun us into shadows both day and night. We keep the horror of our love a secret and dance with the beggars.

We are the horror of love.