tap into the sap of a human body we're rich in nutrients and abundant in self pity ___________________________ a poetry book dedicated to unmarked Salem graves @timespieces copyright 2019

both weep for the thorns in their skulls when the sun is killed and summer has gone by and the rain is acidic. tragic is they are mortals, and mortals are made of greed and unholy prayers.

Didn't you know? Destructive youths with killer tendencies and magic in their veins are the best kind. book i, first draft © 2019, arkhaic

the island of st barths, cradled by the north end of the gulf of the carribean, is a pretty place. on first glance the people who lived there were pretty too - their lips seemed to bulge just as the fruit did, and their eyes caught the sun as did the sea. they were humble, some intellectual, some young, most old. there was a girl called Elodie on this island. Elodie Chantraine. to look at, simply beautiful. it was a pity one couldn't crack open her skull and look inside. perhaps it would have revealed a different story. this story is not one of romance. it is one of Elodie. this story is the exposé of Elodie Chantraine. a sort of coming of age, where no coming of age occurs. a tale of a girl who's beauty has failed her conscience, which has neglected its righteous maturation and left it rotting. to highlight some of her flaws - she is of a girl who is self absorbed, greedy, manipulative, privileged, ungracious, ungrateful, but to the world - perfect. a child who plays with maturity as if it is a toy employed for her will. an intellectual who understands nothing. a story of an antagonist thrust into the role of protagonist. don't let her seduce you. be warned, she's very good at it. oh! just so carelessly good. perhaps if you see past her glistening and sickly beauty and charm, she'll even then able to seduce you with her flaws, and you'll relish in all the terrible in her, terribleness you might remember in yourself, that might sidle and lurk in the moist corners of your heart. • #theLitAwards2019

falling in love is a disease that will leave this book unfinished until the day i die

careworn and smiling with a crooked grin, adoration slept in the wrinkles beside his eyes as he observed the mosaic beauty. she held his callused palm in hers and whispered to the moon; "tonight, we're monsters." romanticism isn't always beautiful.

ARGLE BARGLE WITH A DASH OF HONEY FLAVOURED NOSTALGIA.

sin as sweet as wine.

Neither salt nor sugar settles on your tongue. Only this blood of mine does. Neither I nor she fills up your heart. Only these tears of mine do. [POETRY/PROSE]