15
her name is beauty, and she never listened to a single thing you said.
taken to the low lights where the crawlers hide their dark faces,
she had you feast on pond scum and spread gutter mud over your eyes.
blackwater is the nectar of the gods, she whispers as the grit crunches between your teeth.
you are crying now as she is screaming.
she is the painted moth, spreading her dust and scales so thick you begin to asphyxiate.
she is wrapping her brittle arms around your chest that is shuddering for lack of air, and she murmurs into your neck:
you can never let go.
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