The Crypt Boy
His mother used to tell him graveyards were no place for a little boy. His mother told him many lies.
Writer
His mother used to tell him graveyards were no place for a little boy. His mother told him many lies.
Loneliness can become a physical thing, a person that sits beside you on the bus when no one else will.
It’s a special day. You’ve dressed me up in my very best coat, a sweater, one long sleeved shirt, one
I clench my fingers and fight the urge to take your own in mine. Last night you slept with one
Haa-ppy Biiirth-daaaay to meeeeeeeee, Haa-ppy Biiirth-daaaay to meeeeeeeee, Haa-ppy Biiirth-daaaaaaaaaaaay deaughg oh god a bear! A BEEEEAAAAARRRRRRR!!!! Image courtesy
At night I believe in ghosts. In daylight they would be nothing but dresses; pretty sculptures made of an artists’
My man’s coming home today. He’ll come here first. Before he goes to the white house with the picket fence,
I wish he had never written that song. Or I wish that my mother hadn’t been quite so devout –
“Whither you go next, be wary and warned. Dangers can be soft, and spirits can be touched by evil so
“That way.” “Are you sure?” “The man with no eyes went that way.” I drag my knuckles across my eyes