The sun has humbled me, turned me real and made me small enoigh to fit into a body I never wanted to look at. A body I'd go after from where I came from. 

I'm covered in all the wrong gold and honey, bitter and bound to flesh that cannot conceal its reek accentuated by the misshapen halo of light that can never permeate and single pour of this bodies skin. 

That sacred limelight washes over me-- burning through black irises like an untimely camera flash, and heaven knows nothing quite kills me but the picture of ourselves. 

I die my seventh death falling one story further than the last. I fear of being buried in the sky. 

If your eyes have ever entertained the idea of loving me, I stongly advise to keep the curtains closed.

-Centi, The Creative Coven