black_butterfly's profile

The day my mother came home from the hospital, I knew that life as I had known it would cease to be. Gone was the sparkling, intoxicating, capricious woman I had spent my life longing for, dreaming about and desperately trying to tame. In her place was an injured, bitter woman who wore depressions grimace with helplessness and shame that fringed on pride. But what I recall most were her eyes; the mahogany dark eyes that once glowed with hidden warmth now glittered with a cold, angry sadness. ...

The day my sisters and I buried our mother was mix of deep depression and the sweetest relief. The days of constantly calling on the village doctor to treat my mother’s grievous aches, of attending to her endlessly and trying to keep the moods of my three small sisters optimistic in a time of dense angst were gone. Her own pain, which seemed at times to swallow her whole, had finally departed, taking with it the thick cloud of glom that had encased our lives. On the other hand, we loved our m...

Speak to me, sweet angel Whisper in my ear Murmurs of mad frivolities Things that I both love and fear Sing to me of times to come By my side gently lay Lull me to sleep by starry night And hold me close by day Bring me out of hiding Where I have safely stayed From my home of delicate solitude Where I have watched. Waited. Prayed. I fear both love and hate Which of yours is stronger? Your love for me, your hate of me Which will last me longer? Time will tell the answer And until that day is h...

My grandmother named me Temptation, either out of spite or ingenuity, I’m not sure which. On one hand, it saved me from a life of ambiguity; I’m sure the Jessicas, Brittanys and Sarahs of the world envied me such an alluring name. However the look of initial shock when one sees that my birth name really is Temptation is enough to make me wish to change it. My twin, Sin, is not so fascinated by the origin of our names. But she always said that I inherited the obsessive genes. I suppose this is...

On the hour they found Juliana DeMarius she had only been dead a short time; her skin was still warm, though just barely, and her eyes had yet to glaze over with the frosty haze of death. The sight of her presented a sort of grotesque beauty; she was young, only seventeen and witnessing the passing of one so young can reveal a person’s secret capacity for morbidity. She was rather ordinary. Her older sister, Elysabeth, was the family beauty, her brothers Anthony and William were musicians of ...