By Yvie Firmin

You owe no one consonance. Upon your birth, when the first drop of blood dribbled into cracked dirt, you oathed to herald the new age. 

You are held to this oath. The red-stained roses hold you to this oath; the immemorial dead of the 

Yew hold you to this oath; they are sustained with the prospect of devastation. With your blood. 

You have no obligation to be understood. You are the water of their womb, and the soil encasing their grave. You are everywhere, and you are nowhere; you are life and you are death. 

Do you think, for a heartbeat, that they could ever comprehend you? You are primordial, and you are vernal fresh. You are the chill of a confession whispered under a half-moon. You are a primal scream. You are a snarling wolf, bloodstained teeth bared; you are the lamb, prime for slaughter. They devour dogma after dogma. They are mortal: they are defined. You are duality.

Do not expect to be seen by those blinded by ephemerality. 

–

​​Yvie is a student from the UK who adores English Literature. Her favourite genre is Gothic fiction, and if she sees a deranged and unreliable female narrator, she has a moral duty to read. She is obsessed with the moon, homeric epithets, wine-red, shoegaze, false dichotomies, and metaphors about consumption.