grave letters ✓

04

pyrotechnic fireflies incarcerated in lidocaine wiped mason jars- but you, my bittersweet margo- you'd always forget to drill fine holes into the misshapen tin lids.

glossed lips and cellophane around your cutthroat skull- but iced tanqueray and a dainty match were more than sufficient to burn down your own filched empire built from the rotting limbs of forsaken children and the tempestuous thunder in god's heart.

morphine on your blemished tongue and cinched corsets kissing your supple waist- you breathed blasphemous melancholy in fine white lines with wrinkled dollar bills inside that broken home your dead-beat papa had built for you.

oh, sweet downtown achings! with bouquets of bloodflowers, he told you ghost stories that went much unheard into the serenity of this sleepless town that was yet to respire.

the devil himself kissed your temples goodnight because your papa loathed affection and so you go- another ill-scarred, forsaken, cancerous, outcasted, suicidal, forgotten midnight train to bloody bedlam because dearest lucifer vowed to love his little margo- even if this myopic town could never.

sweet lullabies on his sliced tongue- he sang to you with love that of which the absence was the mere foundation for your good old mama-issues.

he stitched waxing crescents upon your dusty eyelids and the universe into your splintered eyeballs with silk threads out of his asclepias tainted hipbones- but the seams come undone and the cyanide once diffused into your liquid heart coats the devil's pitchfork- but my sweet margo; you'll always be his bloody incarnate.