I didn’t know.
The cherries stain my purest white dress just before I’m due to go onstage.
They knew you were coming.
Impulsiveness and clarity, where did you come from?
(I become a volcano)
I have become the ghost now and everyone else is living, breathing, enjoying things
But I am terrified of the deep grey that resides in me.
My soul will bask, my soul will dream, my soul will regret so much,
But why not?
At eighteen you make mistakes, you have to live. When you’re red –
You lose your mind
It flies away
Like you sometimes wish you could.
I’m dressed in snow but I don’t mind.
I’ll go onstage,
my Agamemnon will insult me,
and Iphigenia will become Cassandra!
But even I won’t believe my stories.