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Description
I feel like the 1800’s. John is cutting through my intestines to my stomach, where he keeps the stash of his victim’s cameos.

Strands of red velvet come streaming from my mouth, not blood—I do not live, just breathe and emanate warmth, and unravel. John sews me up, and I unravel. Cameos.

I do not want prostitute blood on my white nightgown, thank you. Go wash your hands before dinner.

Who—What am I to him? A safe, holding things—secrets he hides by wrapping them up in my being.

Sometimes I tell him, “You have too many bloody cameos.” He replies (always),
“If it bothers you, wash them yourself.” (I can’t tell the difference between the blood and the stomach acid anymore.)

Always night. Always night. He never kills during the day. (Did he?) He wakes me up when he crawls down my mouth the check on his stash and deposit. There must be footprints by now.

The cameos feel like rocks. They settle and stay. “John,” I ask, “Why do you do it?” He nearly never replies, but once:
“Because they remind me of you. Wasted.”

There are always shivers down my spine. I think they are permanent, like scars. I saw them once and asked him what they were. “Stitches,” he said, but stitches move. Shiver’s don’t.

Unravel. Cameos. Stitchshivers. John. Whore blood. John. (John.) Unravel.

“They ‘re looking for you,” I said, not thought.
‘I’ll fix you,’ he thought, not said. (I can’t read minds. I just hope that’s what he thought.)

Red velvet gathers around me. I have the cameos. Still waiting—he only killed during the night. Lying on the ground, he wrapped me around himself… “John?”

“They’ll never find me.”

Description
I feel like the 1800’s. John is cutting through my intestines to my stomach, where he keeps the stash of his victim’s cameos.

Strands of red velvet come streaming from my mouth, not blood—I do not live, just breathe and emanate warmth, and unravel. John sews me up, and I unravel. Cameos.

I do not want prostitute blood on my white nightgown, thank you. Go wash your hands before dinner.

Who—What am I to him? A safe, holding things—secrets he hides by wrapping them up in my being.

Sometimes I tell him, “You have too many bloody cameos.” He replies (always),
“If it bothers you, wash them yourself.” (I can’t tell the difference between the blood and the stomach acid anymore.)

Always night. Always night. He never kills during the day. (Did he?) He wakes me up when he crawls down my mouth the check on his stash and deposit. There must be footprints by now.

The cameos feel like rocks. They settle and stay. “John,” I ask, “Why do you do it?” He nearly never replies, but once:
“Because they remind me of you. Wasted.”

There are always shivers down my spine. I think they are permanent, like scars. I saw them once and asked him what they were. “Stitches,” he said, but stitches move. Shiver’s don’t.

Unravel. Cameos. Stitchshivers. John. Whore blood. John. (John.) Unravel.

“They ‘re looking for you,” I said, not thought.
‘I’ll fix you,’ he thought, not said. (I can’t read minds. I just hope that’s what he thought.)

Red velvet gathers around me. I have the cameos. Still waiting—he only killed during the night. Lying on the ground, he wrapped me around himself… “John?”

“They’ll never find me.”