abra KADAVER

It’s been so long since I’ve been murdered
And every day I look down to see my skin coroded
That much more.

Such a pretty little girl,
Such a gorgeous little corpse
Such a beautiful zombie.

You won’t believe this,
But I’ve got a problem with inconsistency
How the fuck do you think you make sense?

Play me like a piano baby,
You’re my favorite secret.

Was that really worth seeing me crumble and break?
Seeing her sucking a sugarfree lollipop,
Pretending it was your dick?

I may be a smoker but at least I’ll live past thirty.

Yesterday I made the biggest mistake of my life,
But go ahead, brag to your friends
Over gin and spazmatic,
How she still cares about you, you still got ‘er.

How many times now have you said you’re sorry?
And did any of them matter?
No.

I’ll take you in my arms,
And you’ll leave for the next whore who looks at you.

Realize this, honey:
I’ve got perfect teeth,
A nice, bubbly ass
My voice doesn’t sound like I’m gargling a razorblade
And my tits aren’t bigger than my head.

But go ahead, give your attention to them.
After all, they’ve done so much for you!
They held you when you cried,
They gave you their innocence,
They went to a hospital for you, right?

Get this:
I don’t use people.
My vag isn’t loose.
I admit that my problems are my own.

But that doesn’t matter, does it?

Do you really think
That what you do doesn’t get back to me?

People tell me things.
Know why?
Because I DON’T USE THEM.

Fuck you, Jack Jeckel.
At least Jake admits he wanted me for one thing.

I will now share with you a passage from the book I’m reading, Abarat. This particular section kind of struck me, maybe it will you too.

“As he proceeded, his thoughts inevitably turned from the girl that he’d seen on the towers of the Yebba Dim Day to that other special one, the one who had caused him so much grief: his Princess Boa.

Though it was many years since she had hurt him, he still wore on his heart the scars she had left there.

In his eyes she had been beautiful beyond words, a creature of infinite charm and sweetness of nature. She had also been the daughter of King Claus, who ruled at that time an alliance of the Islands of Day. As such, she had been a perfect match for the Lord of Midnight. So he’d told her, in his letters to her.

‘What a time of healing there would be,” he’d written, “if you would consent to marry me. You who love the Daylight Hours, and I, who love the Night. Wouldn’t we be perfect together? For centuries the islands have been at war, sometimes secret hostilities, sometimes open struggle; but always a conflict that ended in a terrible loss of life, and in a stalemate which advanced the cause on neither side.

‘An end to all of that. An end to war, forever! If you would marry me, we would announce on our wedding day that all enmities between the Islands of Night and Day would henceforth cease; and that the old wounds would be healed away by the example of our love, and a new Age begin: an Age of Everlasting Love. The war-makers would be stripped of their weapons and made to turn their hands to some loving labor. On that day too I would intent to free all my many stitchlings, who have worked to defend Midnight from attack. This would be an act of faith on my part. In doing this, I would be announcing to the world that I would rather die unarmed, and in love, than ever pick up another sword.

‘And I would name you, my darling, as my inspiration. You, my sweet Princess, would be the loving soul that the Abarat would thank for your power to quell the anger in the heart of Night.’

There had been many such letters, and many to him from the Princess Boa, in which she’d told him how beautiful his sentiments were, and how much she wanted to believe that Carrion’s Age of Love Everlasting was something that could indeed be brought about.

‘My father, King Claus, and my brother Quiffin have both advised me to accept your noble entreaties,” the Princess had written, “but my lord, I am far from certain that I can do as you all desire me to do. If I fail to feel in my heart the depths of love that a union of our souls surely demands, things would never go well between us. Please understand that I wish you no discourtesy in speaking this way. I only desire to speak truthfully so that there be no misunderstanding.’

Her letter, full of doubt (there was no outright refusal, at least not at the beginning) had hurt him. For long nights after receiving it he could not bring himself to eat, or to speak to anyone. Finally, he had penned a response, begging her to reconsider.

‘If you are concerned about my appearance, lady,”  he had said, “please be reassured: my grandmother Mater Motley has promised to use her skills in the magical arts to erase the marks that a life of grief and loneliness have left upon me. Should you agree to a union between us—and though you say your soul is not touched by love for me, I yet dare hope I may earn that love—then your Midnight Prince would be made new again, as any lover should be: new in your eyes, new in my own, and new, finally, in the eyes of the world.’

But all his reassurances could not persuade the Princess Boa to change her mind. She wrote back to him with great tenderness, but there was always uncertainty in what she wrote. She wasn’t saying no, outright, because her father agreed with Carrion and saw a great opportunity for peace between Day and Night if his daughter and the Lord of Midnight were to marry. But for her to say yes, she would have to be rid of all the questions that haunted her.

She had dreams, she had written, that did not reassure her.

He had written back, asking what dreams these were.

The Princess Boa had not been specific in her response. She’d only said that the dreams had frightened her, and though she did not doubt Carrion’s good and honorable intentions toward her, she could not put these visions out of her head.

As he walked through Gallows Forest, the vultures and the ravens kept pace with him, the ravens flying from tree to tree overhead, the vultures hopping at his feet, fighting between themselves for the place closest to his heels. He remembered how he had labored over the letters he had written back to her, determined to convince her that the dreams she was having were of no significance, and that she should take comfort in his undying devotion to her.

‘I will protect you,’  he had written, ‘from any power that threatens you. I will put myself between you and Death itself. Please, lady, be assured: there is no demon in air, earth or sea that can threaten you.’

Whenever he had sent a letter to her there had always been a trial by hope while he had waited for her reply. And then a terrible moment when that reply had finally arrived and his fingers had become thick and fumbling with unease as he struggled to open the envelope.

The answer never satisfied him.

He pressed her, over and over, to stop punishing him with indecision. And finally, after much importuning on his part, the Princess had given him a clear answer. It could not, indeed, have been clearer. She did not love him, could not love him, and would never love him.

He’d almost drowned in the wave of self-hatred that had broken over him when he read that final reply. He knew why she was telling him no, and it had nothing to do with her nightmares. It was something else; something far simpler.

She hated him.

That was the terrible truth of the matter. However tenderly phrased her refusal, he could not read between the lines of her letter. She thought he was an ugly, scarred, nightmare-ridden grotesque, and she hated him with all her heart.

That was the beginning, the middle and the end of the matter.