A Perfect Stranger

I was born on a full moon. Whether it is meant to explain my love of darkness and night, why the blood inside of my veins boils whenever I hear a wolf howl or why sadness refuses to leave my lungs remains a huge mystery to me. I thought that perhaps if my memory could burn away with the rising sun exactly like my innocence did many and many a year ago, I would find infallible happiness and my strenuous nightmares may very well become placid dreams with a taste much sweeter than that of the rainbow I so foolishly chased back when I had enough energy to hunt for an extravagant treasure that was practically nonexistent merely for the thrill of it. A handful of insightful whispers helped me understand that doing so if I had the opportunity, would only drive me further away from where the roses I enjoy observing are found. The voice was overwhelmingly beautiful, the compassion too abundant to be true, the knowledge and wisdom cryptic. I began to wonder if I was receiving divine guidance from a Goddess or if I was unknowingly making a pact with the devil. They often tell you that curiosity killed the cat, but what they never tell you is that satisfaction brought it back. The bags under her eyes and the spark in them made it clear that she was half in love with life and half in love with death. I saw a part of myself in her. During the toughest times in my past, I did not wish to live, but I did not necessarily wish to perish and journey six feet below ground. She pulled a black rose from behind her ear and handed it to me, then vowed to teach me how to make it any color I pleased if I followed her into places few men have the courage to go. - Angel Rigali // A perfect stranger