She is looming over you like a false god,
your room a temple where all the dead girls pray,
clawing at the ceramic of their skin for divinity
leaking through the scraps.
If you were to pluck every scar from your skin,
uprooted from their field cloaked in bitter soil,
could you create a mural?
They’ll burn the crust of your youth
and carve from your ashes a martyr.
This place is a wasteland,
a silhouette marred in smoke,
but tonight the dim light sits flush against her face,
her laughter like the ocean is alive within her chest,
like bullets folded on her tongue;
something almost contemptuous in her gaze,
disdainful,
yet still prettier than any statue
you’ve ever defaced.
This charred touch is the only thing
the two of you can share, because after all,
how else can you hope to cradle
someone who does not want to be saved?
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