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i. hourglass girl with wrought iron for bones, solemnly swears sundays are for slow suicide and houses sentimental starvation inside her hungry heart.
ii. there's fine-lined poetry inside her, wine-dark and lethal, purging through her plagued love lines and sitting placid amongst her pericardial cavity. quarter till midnight, the dollish moon smiles with the sweetness of honey mango marmalade while she studies the contour of cosmic chocolate chip constellations and makes them her own modern-day revelation.
iii. bleached neurosis and open-flamed eroticism is her favorite glow in the dark ritual so she picks up a walking wall street romeo outside an up-town tavern for inspiration and falls heart-first in his bad religion, dares to drink the danger behind his eyes to get one last taste of gentle sin because she's got a growing ache for the smooth literacy dressing his structured anatomy.
iv. with every skilled stroke of her fingers, he gives her wandering words a new home. and oh god, do they read like eternal cursive on the sleekness of his skin.
v. until love turns into lust and lust turns into lost and the lines all start blurring together from fresh sweat and she can no longer make sense of the smudged syllables anymore.
vi. and so he becomes just another abandoned poem of hers, cast aside and left to collect dust in the rotting parts of her half-eaten hippocampus.
