Trying to sleep in my tent, in my soft, warm sleeping bag.
Tactile comfort, maternal softness, as my mind breaks down.
Tears run down my face, no expression, as black metal blast my ears.
No light, but the untouchable stars, that shine with glittering inaction.
The maternal softness of my sleeping bag, some vestige of reassuring comfort.
The howl of the music, the rage at the light, soothes me in a death like sweetness.
They wanted to stop me, but they would not follow, into the dark, dark forest.
a suicide’s baptism, flesh washed clean of sorrows and wounds and hate.
I could wash myself clean in the cold waters of death, the peace of ceasing.
I try to remember my first kiss, my sweetest moment. It’s lost for all time to me.
I cry harsh, ackaline tears though my face is without expression, without pity.
The dark woods are filled with the ghosts and demons of our own souls.
A nymph stands bright outside my tent, and I know her name, all too well.