I continue to assert that The Locked Tomb is now indelibly part of my personality.

I went into the sequel knowing only to expect some confusion, but it was nonetheless jarring until I started putting things together. It was the sensation of combing through a thousand puzzle pieces with no clue what the box art looks like, and suddenly realizing you have half a dozen edge pieces in your hand which interlock perfectly.

This book is so clever, so morbid, so bonecrushingly sapphic. It is the entire process of grief wrapped in a bow and etched with a seemingly endless font of memes — direct from Tumblr and made poignant by this far reaching, necromantic narrative.

I fucking loved it. My awkward, queer, goth inner teenager is fucking ecstatic. 

“Whenever you’re ready. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll keep the home fires burning.”