The Isle of Sin and Shadows

by Keri Lake

When they look at my body, they’re not seeing me, at all.

Intelligent and emotionless eyes, like those of a man who would dine on your heart with one of those fancy little cocktail forks, all while wearing a bib and a callous smirk the whole time.

And the beauty in all that rejection lies in never having to mourn the end of something that was never there to begin with. Like cutting open a dry vein with no fear of bleeding out.

This attraction to the morally corrupt types is probably a medical condition listed in some thick psychobabble book somewhere. But for me? It’s a big juicy carrot dangling from a stick.

“What black magic do you weave, woman?”