I Only Trust the Villians
No one knows my name. Is it because I don't have one, or because she doesn't let me share it? I walk past carpenters and blacksmiths, haberdasheries and shoeshiners. I wander through gardens, lingering by the lilacs and wondering which is more pleasing: the sight of them, or their scent? I am never sure. I waltz in grand ballrooms and bow to kings and queens, though I take my leave before they can beg me to stay. I am, after all, nothing. You may have thought I was anything, a sort of magician or jack of all trades. A jester, a joker, a trapeze artist. But I am nothing of the sort, I am nothing of any sort, I am nothing. The ink in her pen is my blood, and her unspoken truths are my tongue. I sleep in salted circles on her cheeks at midnight, and I wake in a rage at 2 am, whirling in furious scribbles across the page. Wherever she wants to take me, I obey. And when she has poured it all out, when she is empty and I am full, she reminds me once more that no one will ever know my