I told her not to meddle with things
that you're not relevant anymore (when it's not yours anymore).
There she is, free and fully alive
and getting under my skin. I heard the same story from a different scenario, from a different girl— I guess it just revolves around, like a folklore, that casts an eerie shadow in the forest, that creeps in the cabins, that makes your skin crawl during a conversation in front of a fireplace.
Love was pure, until it gets you mad
she makes me furious, she's the whole carnival of a grotesque memory, an embodiment of regret and persiflage comparison, a harlot dances under the moonlight luring for a tryst, who wanted to build a so called 'home' when her body is on fire, burning in the pits of hell.
She's crawling, she comes back, and I know where to find her, even if she hides like a burglar, she makes a perfect storm and she knows what's to come.
I told her not to meddle with things that are mine, like her last remains left rotten in the cabins where the stories kept hidden, buried and every piece will remain unknown.
