Million Tiny Knives

I spent seven years feeling like my skin was inside out Plagued by panic attacks the body found ways to communicate and detonate the truth Deeply unhappy and deeply in love I couldn't see the killer but I could smell the blood. “something is very sick in my life” Couldn't put a finger on it long enough to make a case No amount of evidence was enough to persuade Him of disconnection. Him of self-denial Him of severed instincts Unwittingly on trial Karmic threads that extend my comprehension of their lineage stitched themselves tighter, trapping me inside a dress that wasn’t mine to wear. I turned a blind eye at first thought they’d stop once they knew we were in love They didn't. They wanted incest. Wanted family. Wanted blood. Skin a clammy pallor two Victorian doll eyes belying no emotion and every emotion all the time One glance my way felt like a million tiny knives, I could never quite explain why it sent shivers down my spine “At first they felt like scratches I didn't want to make a fuss until one morning I woke up and I was covered in my blood” My dreams began to die by a million tiny cuts crisscrossing softly over time noughts 'n crossing through the night until the day that I decided: Enough. Cut to today in LA life, I saw their first victim last night We hallelujah'd and high 5'd “Congrats, you made it out alive” and the strangest thing I learned is that the dangers in my life were so much worse than all my fears worse than someone who could connive Abusive, sick, violent, illegal. Somebody wild, wounded and sad. And though it won't mean much to others, it disturbed the peace I had because I'd felt it all along and I had seen it from the start: A serial killer mind hiding inside a darker art.