soaking in solar rays © 2017

revival

vanilla scented poetry

This is the death of the nice girl, the disillusionment that we ever needed to be one. They expected us to crawl to them, with palms up and legs open with perfect pretty painted faces and oh so sweet smiles, what a show to behold, what a horror to live. But I clench a knife between my teeth now, grinning ugly and bloody. And I'm never nice.

have you ever seen a slave in gold chains? i have never seen so much golden slave flesh melted and turned to candle wax.

drop by my house at half past noon; we'll make small talk of murder over chamomile tea © VANGOHS, 2017