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Stale air of my castle's masterbed comes and goes through my lungs. It is akin to there never being enough and soon I am gasping for it. So called lost feelings, forgotten words resurface. Not unknown but stinging.
The wooden stake splinters. Relief or agony? Who can say, it all feels the same. These tiny wooden fragments get harder to find every night. They are a part of my ghostly skin. My claws and fangs would not be the only things to prick. Maybe I will regrow into a beautiful rose with a myriad of thorns. Or maybe, the petals will fall until my last desperate breath.
I am free now, nevertheless, I remain with my mouth tightly shut.
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