You were written to me,
Not to my depression, not to my despair
But to my true, formidable self—without mercy.
Watch your body crumble, young girl,
and a tempest of thoughts...infernal furies...
my blood and my bones dictate what I must do
I will surrender to any violence,
your fragile form was written mighty within me.
And you are the prey I have long awaited
to fall into my grasp.
I play alone in the dark—and I sing,
And, as accomplice to crime, I regard my sex, wild
in its uprising;
It will tear through your tender flesh and scar it beyond words.
And are you happy now...
So many nights of anguish, fever, and fever-dream...
So many wounds I have kindled in my heart
will shatter—and will spill into you with the first release.
# Preface to a Love Novel The heart knows no preface— it enters mid-sentence, breathless, like a reader who has already turned three pages before looking up. What should I say before the story begins? That love is not what the novels promise? That it arrives without announcement, wears ordinary clothes, speaks in whispers? Or that the grandest declarations pale beside a single glance held too long, a hand found in darkness, the way someone remembers how you take your tea? Perhaps I should warn you: the lovers in this tale are not beautiful in the way flowers are beautiful. They are beautiful the way old houses are beautiful— full of creaking floorboards and shadows, corners where light pools strangely, rooms you enter expecting one thing and find another waiting. They will hurt each other. They will misunderstand. There will be silences that stretch like oceans. But read on. Because between the wreckage and the longing, between the words spoken and the words swallowed whole, there is a love that does not need a preface— it simply begins, and keeps beginning, on every page you turn.
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