I feel like winter on the inside. Cold and empty. Barren, fearful, silent, waiting.
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Sweet little gasps
Crimson blood dripping down claws
Throats gripped like bibles.
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Sweet, tender necks, twisted from natural poses, resplendent ballerinas with graceful, twitching limbs.
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A shallow dug grave
An unmarked, iron headstone
The soil stirs again.
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Six little bone breaks
Bone peaking out of soft flesh
Seven little screams.
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Your hand wrapped around a pearl, my hands falling to break yours on the concrete steps. Your blood dripping down past my fingers, white slivers splintered into my palms.
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Choke. Choke. Choke on all that you've done, did, and will do.
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The melting myrmidons.
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A blade, wielded with the precision of a conductor's baton. An ensemble of blood and screams. Warmongering melodies and cacophonic dirges.
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If we went marching into the woods, do you really think you'd crawl back out?
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Words mean nothing if not spit out from clenched teeth and burning tongues.
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Blood drips slower than you'd think.
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The synthwave will be merciless and indiscriminate.
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The glare from the window will only burn while the blinds are open.
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Orange is not a color.
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Dust isn't as pretty as glitter, but it is biodegradable.
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The yellow frog does not perceive you. How unfortunate.
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