He gained. A heart weighs more.

The cool white present of

protection in return for that

bloody muscle capable of so

much red passion. He gave

Without knowing what he would

create; breast heaving life,

became his. She had never known

loneliness like him, it was better

that way; he knew her worth,

the strength of her pulsing red

life, guarded by his steady

strong bone. He lost a rib, for her

he gained. A heart. And that,

became, his weakness.

Showcasing dead old lady beads

Once worn to tea with Dukes, princesses and little girls in pink chiffon.

Sweet summer ice cream drips down her arm.

Black cherry tears yearn for licking.

Wiped clean instead.

Forgetting the little girls

Forgetting her childhood.

She creates boundaries void of association and explanation.

Inspiration lost amongst mother’s rules

And father’s absence.

Still playing dress-up

Still asking why.

Her beads will soon be worn.

Bought from a thrift store

With no regard for her absence.

All that remains are the dreams and twirls of little girls in pink chiffon.

Pink Chiffon by The Picture House

hear, she left you awestruck-

unable to speak. All your words blocked

by Adam’s dubious apple, lodged

relentlessly in your throat.

Let me lend you my pale hand and

yank that annoying fruit from

your throat. Don’t fret, bleeding is

normal with this procedure. Fingernails

always scratch and those long fleshy

wounds will eventually scar.

Allow me to take your tempting

poisonous treat and place its

sin where it should have been

lodged all along. Mistress has been

yearning for another taste.

When you have healed and can

speak, tell her it’s over. Ask for

your rib back (damn it looked better on

you anyway) besides, she won’t

be alone. The serpent will

keep her company.

Beauty has left her mark I hear; she left

you, awestruck. Tell her it’s over.

When the bleeding stops

you’ll forget the apple,

was ever there.

Choose it.

Bag it.

Contain it.

The countdown begins.

Does it last through the night?

Does it go into shock?

Feed your fish.

Too much leads to a fast, explosive death.

Too little leads to a slow, agonizing departure.

Give it space – don’t tap the glass.

Chances are your fish will make it.

What is the life expectancy of a fish anyways?

Solitude by the Water Garden by Addicted Eyes

Lettuce drink in our complacency,

Lettuce tread amongst our decisions,

Lettuce swim through our mistakes,

Lettuce dream in our waking,

Lettuce eat our words.