living dead girl

I lost time again today.

The scent of the face paint clung to me like a bad memory, sickeningly saccharine funerary pallor. A fragrance meant to compensate for rot. Corpse paint for a halloween event was an interesting choice. I remembered the breath on my face, the inescapable scorn and distorted tinkle of circus bells, the soundtrack of some feverish, hellish dreamscape. A foolish boy framed as a nightmare. 

I didn't know whether there were eyes on my back as I leaned back in my chair, leadened by melancholy. The whole day I've been sluggish and sleep deprived. I find myself in need of comfort that I will not find. 

A returned stolen glance as I slip through a doorway. I run from myself every time I avoid his eyes. I know better than to entertain limerent notions of entangling my thoughts with the socially comfortable. I'd rather swallow my own heart instead of my pride. 

I'm in a cafe, different from the one I usually haunt. The sun shines audaciously but it is still cold outside. I should feel more festive than I do, but everything besides falling into a deep unconsciousness sounds like too much effort. Push everything until tomorrow, when I am not so tired. But I am always tired, I have not been timely to Erebus in a great while. Maybe my somnambulant apathy will steel my nerves. A shade paler than usual, my pigment seemingly fleeting to the rings around my eyes, almost bruised looking. my hands are cold against my eyelids. All I need is a leather duster and I'm a creature of the night (should I take up cigarettes with my coffee?).