1. You have to invent your own genre, what happens if you don’t is that they subsume you into theirs.
(By genre, I mean everything.)
2. You want them to like you, but you know that your magic is not for them.
3. They inveigle you. They distract you from the scratch at the cellar door, from the sound of wings in the attic, from the unraveling of the bed.
4. They sugar the pill.
5. They offer you a beautiful face. The price is your silence, or else you can pay them with your voice.
6. You only saw because the mirror turned at the slightest of angles. You only know because you are at an angle yourself, you were always that way.
But you were only looking in the mirror to see the cumulative iterations of your gaze, and theirs. It’s not your fault you saw it.
7. They say you saw nothing. They never believe you. They tell you up is down.
8. They infiltrate you endemically, intimately, subtle as your own hand; to escape them you need to invent a new grammar.
(By grammar, I mean a knife.)
9. Home is where the hearts are.
10. One day you notice that your husband has a beard so black it’s blue.