She wears a red dress and is made of mystery.
You'll swear you never see her out the corner of your eye; you'll never hear her whisper as she walks past.
She'll appear to you in the simplest of ways.
A crooked smile; laughter carried over a crowded bus terminal.
Restless fingers tapping against the steering wheel of a not-so-strange stranger's car.
She's subtle in her way.
She makes time stand still with her beauty on display,
and you're afraid that if you look at her too long you'll fall in love with her.
You're afraid because you know loving her would mean sacrifice.
She demands that you love without sight; and sense.
So you'll cut out your tongue and pluck out your eyes.
She'll build a home in your chest;
She'll empty the graves, the ones you buried your lovers in,
in the cemetery behind your ribcage.
She'll dig them out.
She'll leave them on display.
She'll paint their faces to hide the rot; she'll stretch their lips into familiar smiles that resemble adoration.
She'll guide their hands to caress your bones,
And you'll find yourself loving the company.
You'll find that you've fallen in love with what is dead.