I've savin' up for the day that she goes. The day that she stands up for everything that she chose.

This colour she shows you, the softness you see,
glints of light caught scampering; fleeting flickers
of fondness trapped in fractioned time,
All of it,
all of it a ruse.
All of it a mask, a map without compass,
A last ditch attempt to function,
A bandaged-up, writhing wound of consumption,
all of it.

She's smallest inside. Below the tar-pit stomach,
underneath all the sickness and black,
matchstick limbs punch holes,
small lips part in darkness and screams are filled in, choked off.
She flicks a switch and lets the light in, the glow in the glass bottle, the rum-bubble warmth.
The liquid slips in like a lover and burns her insides out.
The warmth.
The soothing swell of opening veins.
Edges of a smile bleeding into her cheeks,
she'll drown you in the milk of her eyes, drip honey from her tongue, lie with her fingertips.
All of it a trick.

She's the fool, you're the pawn.
She's the queen, you're the crook.
Enjoy the night, the anonymity of the sun-starved sky. Forget there is a promise of morning, the threat of clock-hands peeling your body like a label from the pavement. Time will delude you, drug you, eat through your insides and leave through your pores when you awake.
Forget her, she's all the bad parts of fairy tales. She'll eat herself alive. She'll never wake up.
All of it a dream.