#lestat pov

[moondustinfj]

The truth is you could slit my throat

And with my one last gasping breath

I'd apologize for bleeding on your shirt

And all I need to know

Is that I'm something you'll be missing

Maybe I should hate you for this

Never really did ever quite get that

If l'm just bad news, then you're a liar

(if only you knew half as much as you pretend to)

You're So Last Summer - Taking Back Sunday

[dlsintegration]

[arcaneweaving]

six years later, i’m back with a humble offering:

La Grande Mort

Dear God,

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. His love be with me through the night, and wake with me in morning… I jest! A cruel joke, and not the point of this letter. I am nervous, and I don’t know where to begin. I could, I suppose, attempt a chronological telling of this story. The account would still make little sense to either of us. I am writing this to the one who hates me, the one that kills and invigorates me in equal measure, my sun and moon, and all those faraway things in between– the stars whose heat I will never truly know. It is thrilling to think of what secret pains my universe holds. The intended reader of this cares little for my words, chosen with as much care as I can manage that my fingers ache to write them. This is a letter to my one, my love, the angel I created demonic in my own likeness. He is my God as much as I am his. He burns me badly even as I crave his warmth. There is still something so human about him. I despise it, I disdain it, I thirst for it. Sometimes I feel that I cannot help but crush it each time I cradle it in my arms… my words carry me away with them. I am tempted to burn this letter now, but I suppose I may as well commit to it, splay my whole self out on the page and leave that destructive pleasure to the recipient. Louis, ma cherie, if you have gotten this far without throwing me away again, I have a bone to pick with you. I have found your account of our affair sorely lacking. It escapes me, why you handed the sacred text of our love to the first shell of a man with a recorder who would listen. Can you really think so little of me? Will you at least indulge my romanticization of our lovely tragedy? Don’t burn me again, I beg. Set my letters aside on whatever shallow shelf you have left in your heart for me. In return, I’ll try not to break it again.

Yours Everlasting,

Lestat

[suikamelon6]

We need this interview yesterday.