voodoo
Self-hate is a ritual she knows too well.
She can trace the lines on her wrist and her thighs, screaming, hoping the light recognizes she’s never been fine.
She hides in her mind.
The monsters conjure themselves awake to take her light and murder it with a stake.
She’s nothing but a waste.
She sacrifices her grace to her mother, wondering if Lazarus still rises.
When you speak to the dead,
all of them hear you.
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