this time, she's not begging for
understanding and forgiveness,
none of the empathy that girls always yearn for.
they expect something anodyne from us and
that's what we give most of the time,
because this world has already planned out our
futures for us.
there is something tragically beautiful about such
broken people,
it's as shifting as the magenta lies we paint
right on their faces.
at night, there is acid boiling
beneath our skin, and we have them unknowingly
sleeping in their own decay.

she can read all his thoughts but he
could never do that to her, because
some walls are stronger than others (maybe).
she wants the truth to hurt him more
than it hurts her, so this time
she's not playing nice
anymore.

there is still such a strong smell of
that formaldehyde lingering
in the air.

i'll tie your bones up pretty
in a pink lace ribbon, she whispers,
trails a finger down his chest and pushes against his heart,
tears of mascara running down her cheeks.

i love you
so.
much.

i just can't let you go.

a/n. testing the waters of a new genre. to anyone who may have concerns, i swear this has nothing to do with my life.

i like those rainbows, she whispers
in his ear, and he
looks up to seven shades of
black and white--beautiful in
monochrome;
in her dreams they toss red roses on
body bags
and watch the thorns rip through
plastic.

he laces his fingers with hers,
watches the smile playing on her lips,
and tucks the blankets tighter around
her sleeping form.
sweet dreams, he whispers
and leaves her with her
favorite nightmare.

there's only static now.

in these dreams, she writes with emotions
(not the twenty-six alphabets),
about a sentimentality
inexpressable.
they hold her down by the arms
on cold, metal tables and shine on her
lights warm enough to break through
any nightmare. but--

leather straps are much softer against
raw, raw skin and so she
falls deeper into the dream she doesn't want
to wake from. they're breathing.

--it's not a nightmare, she whispers
but nothing comes out other than
those unwritten emotions.

they're breathing nicotine all over her
body, and stand admiring
gray smoke and white skin.
in their eyes, these are colors of the
rainbow,
more beautiful than
sin.

it's the adrenaline at work, says goldilocks, in the
midst of this pandemic, and the brothers grimm suddenly
the epitome of placebo-pill-endings.
they're checking their reflections in polished leather boots and
doing last-minute touchups on those semi-automatics.
it's not truly a war and not truly a battle, maybe as real as
the tales of three blind mice.

they remember the rules of the game and still
come home in body bags.

like second-hand wishes for the dead,
passed down a generation or maybe
two, because oh, those genetic disorders embedded
in your skin; what big teeth you have,
grandma! little red exclaims before wolf tosses
the disguise.

they are wishes of the more forlorn, less
tattered, and more miserly,
a chaotic mess of postmodernist opinions that
draw pedantic circles. just some second-hand wishes
for those who need it the least but
want it the most.

they wake up in their favorite fairytales.