A dark mess of intention,
an already-dug grave.
This was her lifeblood,
she had no one to save.
She was drowning in her own mouth.
Sin nipped at her elbows,
stained her handsome teeth.
She stepped on a songbird once,
his yellow throat caught beneath.
death had tasted like dried pineapple.
She buried him in the ocean,
her back to the chapel.
death was simple,
a palm full of sugar.
Perched on a yellow line,
a key wedged under her tongue.
for what I do not know.
by bottle brush tails,
and burnt orange coats.
Plenty of suitors,
come to play,
their throats wrapped in fluorescent scales.
But she is still in the dark.
There was this man,
a brave thing.
He was the lock to her key.
Writers are thieves in their own right,
taking eyes, lips, and hands for their own.
They steal beating hearts,
so their characters can long for the essence of another.
They pilfer garrulous lungs,
so their creations may breathe the words within them.
They abduct stubborn spines,
so their figures might find movement and heading.
A soul is the only thing they can’t pillage,
A soul is what they themselves create,
an entity that cannot be faked.