serves up my heart

March 22, 2020

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It’s that kind of story.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams

the seven psalms of hell

February 13, 2020

The demon arrived before the town. She fell out of a red oak in the primeval forest that would eventually turn into Schism Street and Memorial Square into a white howl of snow and frozen sea-spray. She was naked, her body branded with four-spoked seals, wheels of banishment, and the seven psalms of hell. Her hair burnt off and she had no fingernails or toenails. The hair grew back — black, naturally — and the 16th century offered a range of options for completely covering female skin from chin to heel, black-burnt with the diamond trident-brand of Amdusias or not.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams

I could growl…

May 12, 2016

wolf

I said: I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams

Eat you whole

December 23, 2015

expectnomercy

I said: “I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth on your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair.”

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams