she is

my ex says she knows tragedy better than the oracles; the bones of pomegranates splattered across her singeing hip and still pale as a waning corpse against an ink palette, she twiddles with rabbit feet.

she is marrow leaking into your pupils. why bother looking at the sunset to find spines littered amongst the stars like a macabre drenched sidewalk? no one likes a melted headache (even though you’ve torn the melody; you’re offly hungry). nail a spare achilles heel to the northern moons and wish for locust blossoms kissing your bruised rib. she is sin.

“can you only offer a child’s skull?”