a girl with no self love is merely a museum of mishaps boys will hasten around the halls of
sweet candy at the front desk but good lord, that is not the only treat these guests are in for
her feeble body aches
she declares she ravishes in the destruction of sloppy versioned masterpieces, in a brain she hardly calls home, sprouted from dirty words written on bathroom stalls and deaths of flowers upon foam mattresses
philosophers will study
her pain and pleasure
pull it apart and make it their own
and they're mighty sure they know exactly what she's been through
experts will call it the remnant of a burnt rose and a smashed bottle of wine in an ice cream shop parking lot
mother titles art as outbursts
and swears the moon could swallow
her little girl whole
before she lets herself melt into cold paint pressed within black holes of bile and blood
fog fills car windows and words that were supposed to be left unsaid in tar prevailed throats are written out with frail fingers
she lights fire inside her
designs destroyed but she is more content
than ever
