I was a lost girl, whom found a place upon the fringe of hell. I taunt the church and dance on graves and tamper with the bells. To some my behaviour seems quite extreme, an appetite for pain, but just to me, and perhaps only me, its not a pain but a great relief, to find a way to vent my grief, and as barbaric as it may seem, a dance with fire awakens me, from the worldly slumber.
An English orphan is what I am, a vagabond at best. A scheming, screaming tormented soul I had no place to rest. I found my home inside this whole of magic beans and potions, a siren genie whom surpassed the rest in the world of toxic notions.
I find a comfort in the arms of dark, the coldness keeps me warm, like a broken child from a broken home, who isn't loved so craves no one, home is still a home. The world had left me far behind a long, long time ago, and so I sold my soul, my demented soul, to the only thing I've ever known, the only thing I've ever owned, the burning bad of hell.