Blueberry-Bride

From Wings, Fly Hell in the crispness of dried skin curled under the soft web of stretched flesh on the drying rack So sweet and yet there is no song for destruction. So They fell, fell from the great Him. Those small birds with their charred wings, stretched web of skin that is blackened by the drying rack. From Wings, Fly Hell down itno the depths of universal dread, The place of cold and goodbye and dwell on the memory of what was in the time before the drying rack. There was no Hell before the drying rack. No Wings to Fly before the drying rack. And there were no songs o destruction, before there was a fear that one might be d

This is a world of locked doors. Every no is yet another echo of them Slamming shut in front of you. Every yes, is a key.

Beauty can hide a demon from the world more easily then invisibility. Beauty is so often trusted because everyone desires beauty in one way or another, and everyone is so willing to trust beauty because everyone imagines that beauty is itself trusting. Beauty can hide a demon from the world more easily, because the world will let it.

The greatest problem of life is living. The most natural solution is death. There is nothing more natural to a start, then an end.

She was never one for the smiles of others. To her, eyes meant more than she let on, And tears were only soft whispers of a past that was Riddled with more bullets then she ever cared to say.

Long time would I rest my head at the corner of your chest and neck, would trace the muscle taught road of your stomach, with my fingertips. Softly would I sigh as you curled your long glass fingers, smooth and white, you would hold me, the paleness of your skin offset by the blue of your eyes. Your eyes would be the color of stars, and your skin the color of stripes, minus red, Red was reserved for the color of your lips, and those who had as of yet, tasted life.

Lady of the night, eyes deader than the very red Of her nails, of her dress, sunken into her face, Lips chapped and bleeding under lipstick the color of her sins, and hands like twin covers that mask her face when she can no longer stand a mirror's truth.

Teach me to hate. Teach me pursed lips that Stamp out dignity.

Teach me to cry. Teach me the soft ballads That turn flesh to fire.