Weird little poem I just made up.
Heart echoing, empty ventricles, she is shrouded in
Mist and Miss Sixty, lips all painted red and ribs all
White and exoskeletal below her skin - paper - pages
Torn from diaries, chronicles of angst and crushes she
Crushed into skeleton-dust.
Mouth smeared drunkenly, like she's stolen her
Mother's makeup and sat beside the mirror that said
She was not the fairest in the land, the mirror that lied
'Til she showed it the gap between her thighs, the
Hollowed-out cavities inside of her; rotting and
Rotting; lobotomized and ready to carve him out, to
Make him empty and aching and reeking of sweet
Desperation, it hangs in the air like the bitter wisps of