![]() ![]() Then I drop it into the orange clay pot by my bed. I wind a piece of string around it for a cleaner burn, so it won't be as smoky, so I'll have less chance of getting in trouble. It's perfect for burning, all dried up-the leaves shriveled, twisted and gray. ![]() With the last curl of the S, I place the razor to the side and pluck a branch of sage from the drawer. They're Drea's initials, but she doesn't suspect a thing, just keeps scribbling away in her diary, like any other night, sitting up in her bed, only a few feet away. into the rounded side, tiny flakes of sparkling blue wax crumbling from the surface with each incision and every drag of the blade. Then I grab the virgin candle and carve the I pinch the safety end of the razor blade between three fingers to write. And the pain in my stomach-sharp, raw, scathing. Wind whirring in my ears, watering my eyes. The sound of his body lurking somewhere behind me. Always at night, in the forest, looking for Drea. Blue is for Nightmares Laurie Faria Stolarz ![]()
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