| Plastic |
Like motes of sunshine,
her hair catches fire,
s.h.i.n.e.s.
Her smile saccharine sweet,
while you kind of stare,
f.r.e.e.z.e.s.
Crushed ice, chopped depths;
her eyes, glistening and reflecting; dead,
s.l.i.p.
Lips like hovering fireflies,
pale and flowery, disconcerting,
t.w.i.s.t.
Clotted cream, petal smooth,
shiny, pale – frozen, her skin
c.r.a.w.l.s.
Caterpillars, ladybugs, and fireflies,
you strangle
the
wall
clock
And you see in her,
her, her, her, her—
y.o.u.r.s.e.l.f.
reeking, rotting,
dead. |
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posted by Midnightazia at 
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