hip-bone militia
like death you are pretty
bondage queen to the non-existent audience
she dances
like fire
walk with me, slowly
cut with me
deeply
kiss with me
oh, we should be
together forever
to kill the pain
obesession of purity
pure thoughts indeed
like a whore, you sell
your thoughts to fuck
that old man
that old woman
that young girl
who begs at the corner
whore, slut, wench
but i love you for it
just never lie dead on the floor
can't stop that screaming now
make my ears bleed
lick up sweet blood
so wrong
so wrong
so painfully right
Cathryn
Ash-Dead Kisses
girls behind mirrors
casting oh-so-perfect reflections
of perfection so perfect
there could be no other...
no other way of what?
no other way of harming myself with malicious thoughts
so dirty
face-cloth drama queen
with prettiness aside
left for her dessert of
pills, bullets and carving knives
that can carve away the disease
i hope it goes away
into crystal savage rooms
placed so purely next to me
opposite doors facing me
in my mind
red slippers
so beautiful
non-sensical
i hope i die
razor-blade break alongs
that flow beside the glass texture
of loving the white stuff
imprinted on your nose
that one last sniff
that makes it all
better
passed out on the floor
another girl lost in her fluids
of reds, blues and rainbows
detailed in the lines of her own dear selfish suicide
Cathryn
Face-cloth drama queens, crystal savage rooms, girls behind mirrors and the hip-bone militia... She writes this—and others—off the cuff now and goes to high school next year. Surely, after thousands of years, we can offer thirteen-year olds more than death by numbers?
Mind you, after reading the news...
