Sick.

A twisted mind and a pen. She put them together and begot a marvel. She did not know herself to be so complex until she finished. Her crimes were wonderful. She never let them come close to being revealed. Especially, or unless she was with her. That one girl had such an effect on her. The strong urge to bare all to her was uncontrollable. But she feared. What if she goes away if she knows what I really am? No, no. She loves her. Impossible. Love is so pure. Then why is it that I want to kill her? I know why. So that she is mine, forever. She was obsessed with the notion of being close to her. Even if only close enough to smell the lavender of her gold hair. It was the age-old fantasy for me. A girl's lavender. She grew up in a lavender farm, that's why. No, no. Just a twisted psyche. Now how is that said? These things drove her crazy especially when she could not decide which complexity to adopt. Did she hate the bourgeois? Or did she want to be a proletarian? Both disgusting. I am a tramp. And so is she. But am i a tramp because i am odd? Or am i a hobo? She laughs at her rambling thoughts. Of chourse she is a duchess. Nothing less. My husband cannot keep is pants on. He will just die of consumption some day. Pants and consumption, how are they related? By lavender, of course. Her hair made everything make sense. Even of the day she died. I died along in me somewhere. But another gratification grew in me that she belonged to noone but me for all her life. Twistedly sacred, mine.

-Inspired by Dorian Gray, anonymous