Marriages and wakes, funerals and birthdays, equinox and sacrifices. Every moment of this Gothic graveyard in which I live requires a dressing to heal the wound. During my Gothic wedding my dress was lace and black wires pulled tight across my rib cage like rivets on the skin of a mechanical eagle. As the maids of my honor bowed as I entered the cathedral to seal my vows with my wedding vows to the Master of Darkness I shine like a black hole swallows the photons of a scream. Tight fitting with a long trail of lace like a slug oozing across the eye of a corpse setting a petulant fire into the future of every generation.

Such as when we bury our loved ones and my funeral dress paints the room with dignity and despair hued in blacks and reds. Drapes of velvet and veils of mesh spider webbing cover my sadness as I pitch handfuls of dirt into the open pit where my lover now lays in the encrusted ivory coffin.

In the autumn, as leaves drop and Halloween returns the souls of the dead into the bodies of rats, foxes, horses and monkeys to swim in the night, I cover myself with a handsome dress. In the cooler nights it is long and flowing, a gown for a goddess and in the warm gasping winds of the end of summer my hem shortens to mimic the length of days and my beauty is absolute and a reflection of the glorious natural wonders that exist beyond mankind.