I wear a dress made of stars, galaxies swirling along the bodice, nebulae lining the fringe. i am made of every life ever lived and every soul that ever will be.
My skin is covered in words. Every poem, every novel, every classic i’ve ever read. Words melding together and covering my skin in ink. 50 thousand fonts and letters melding together in a grotesque mockery of a tattoo. My favorites excerpts are printed in bloody red.
Every breath I breath in is made of stories. Novels, plays, movies, ballet, tv shows, opera, music, art. It fills my veins and fuels my body. Carrying thoughts and dreams as they make my muscles move.
My hair is thousands of memories strung together. Ever moment filled with emotion. Sadness drowns me as Rage burns bright. Love floats me to the highest clouds as happiness brings me down to earth where I can dig my toes in fresh soil.
Seas of tears fill my eyes. Every one I’ve ever shed and every one I haven’t. Just because something isn’t real doesn’t mean I can’t scream for it. Tear filled wails shake my body as I sob for lives never lived and souls reaped to soon. Dreams drown as I cry for every person alive and those already in the grave and those who will be and those only found within stories.
My heart pumps ink through my veins. Never replacing blood but trying to take a humanity to whom it’s claim had always been staked. The ghostly hands of authors long dead and characters fated to be, caress my bones as I crawl to my grave of pages.
I start as a film reel replaces my brain. Love and Loss and Pain and Worship not mine control me like a marionette. Every emotion from this earth and beyond dig their claws into the inside of my skull as ideas framed as people recite lines lost to time.
I cut my arms open with a sharp shard of glass. I spill blood red as dusk as I don every bad thought, every bad day , every tragedy and heartbreak, every scream and fear fraught day my family has ever had. I soak them in my ink streaked blood and make every familial woe mine. I wear boots made of death and tights of betrayal. My shawl is of fear and my belt made of financial doubt. I wear a headband of hate and bangles of loss as prejudice is smeared around my lips like lipstick.
They ask me what it’s like to be a writer.
I say it’s like turning yourself into fates marionette as you become Frankenstein’s monster.