little blue flowers

on a moonlit stage

"you haven't made me music in awhile," she says through her lisp, eyes dancing in their sockets. death has always been a clingy girl with pigtails and star-studded freckles, a gangly female with sharp elbows and skin tasting of moonshine.
"you haven't even tried."

"i'm done trying," he replies.

she laughs a hollow note. then turns, sliding her body across the hood of the piano, small breasts squashed beneath her. her nipples resemble ripe cherries through her slip.
"do you not love me anymore? i've done so much for you, darling. i fed your dreams at night when you were lonely and drew you baths to drown in. we've been lovers since we first met."

"we haven't met yet," he says, gaze dropping to the wooden floor. this old stage used to play the greats, but it's just him now. just him and this vixen.

her depthless eyes flicker. "you're wrong. remember the boat? the way you lovingly stared into the water, ready to jump to me? or the bathroom mirror. hell, i thought you were going to pick up a shard of it once you were through with your bloodied knuckles, shaking like a leaf. almost. we've almost met several times."

death tips her head back. she has the most beautiful skin he's ever seen. she needs it to cage the monster beneath it, he thinks grimly.
"play me a song, won't you?"

he shakes his head. once. "i told you that's not me anymore. go find another." even as he feels his body shuddering around him, made empty by her presence, the taste of moonshine and cherries dulling his senses.

"don't play these games with me, darling." she clicks her tongue and smiles a wicked thing at him. "you're not strong enough to hold your own against me. sit down."

despite every cell in his body screaming, pleading no, he sits at the piano's bench. a sweat breaks out on his neck.

death slides closer, her body steaming with desire. one strap of her slip falls across her freckled shoulder, and her voice is liquid fire pooling in his ears as she whispers her order,

"play."

he struggles for barely the beat of a hummingbird's wing before his fingers settle on the keys.

and play.

he's not the boy who wins.
he's the encore-the leftover, ruined talent-that comes after.