A collection of poetry from the perspective of a death girl. Sensitive and introspective. Contemplating the meaning of human connection and sexuality. But at what cost?

I'm not even mad. Any memory, whether it has been marred by the blackness of you, who didn't care to cradle me when I exposed to you my infantile self, my still-figuring-things-out hesitancy, any memory with you is cherished. Worshipped. There is a hypnosis to the dance between the bitter-sweetness of us last night--enveloped, encapsulated--verses us today--dislodged, denatured--that mesmerizes me. That consumes me--rabidly. Metabolically. Last night was a fever-dream. A spell.


Chapter 12 - Fever-Dream