The card, plain as its outer covering, contained four lines, each written in block letters with a permanent black marker. Its ink, determined to outdo the flowers in funereal reek, had bled through the thin card stock, leaving an incomplete phantom alter-image on its opposite side. An image eroded in the places where the marker’s fine point had pushed through, its sentiment punctuated by a series of small yet intentional punctures.
As I read those words, a tremor juddered through me. The ground seemed to evaporate beneath my feet, my mouth turned to sand, and my tongue to ash.
I know where you go when you think you’re asleep.
I’ll never leave, never let you keep
Your secrets. Buds, coffins, chrysalises
All open with a scream.
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