Her thoughts were rancid,
like bile in the back of the throat,
because her insides were rotting away,
infected by the black, putrid thing
that she called her soul.
It was putrid in a way
that permeated every gelatinous sinew of her body,
her organs, her bones, her muscle tissue, her very skin
was utterly toxic, a wasteland of decay.
Butterflies would land on her
In the same way, they would land on a dead fish:
To scavenge for meat.
//
\\
Listen carefully dear
Someone someday will tell you something new
What you do with it, it’s up to you.

And that something may be the one thing to make you shy away from the world
But don’t be afraid, for I will always be here..

To protect you
To fight for you

So listen closely now
And tell me what you hear…
.
.

-Pia Majumdar