by S. Brackett Robertson
They whispered, “kill your darlings”
and so she did.
She drew them nearer, under sheets, in snow, in rain,
so she could rub her fingers behind their ears
trace their skin down to their throats
Her fingernails were long, sharpened to a point
to collect the small spills of blood
before they stained the bedclothes.
She never left a trace.
S. Brackett Robertson is a recently graduated student of anthropology and museum studies. Her poetry has previously appeared in Mythic Delirium, Scheherazade's Bequest, and Goblin Fruit. No matter where she finds herself, she tends to be on the prowl for archaic objects and places. She enjoys reading, particularly stories, and going on walks through the woods or past strange architecture.