Miss Sixty

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 

Miss Sixty. 

 

 

The End

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