Onto Dead Little Girls

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Spiders hang from threads made of shadows.

Blood dripping from his tongue,

Silence flooding the sky.

He’s pouring salt along open wounds,

Bandaging them with dust,

Disinfecting with poison.

Black roses on a coffin

For a small little girl

In a pale pink dress

And cuts along her

Fingertips.

Frozen clocks begin to move

Faster

Faster

Faster.

Done.

The sun has risen,

Early morning light 

Shining brightly in the sky.

He walks to the graveyard,

Setting white daisies on

The little girl’s

Grave.

Days go by, 

And he sits there.

Waiting.

Tearing petals off the flowers,

One

By

One

By

One.

And a butterfly lands on one daisy.

So gently,

So elegantly,

So sweetly,

So innocently.

He crawls on his hands and knees,

Holes in his clothes,

Dirt on his fingers.

He tickles the butterfly

And treasures it until it dies.

For the best thing to do

Is rip off the wings of a butterfly…

And sew them onto dead little girls.

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⏰ Last updated: May 15, 2014 ⏰

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