DEAD PRINCESS.

     ❛  MODEL PART.  ❜   death is a concept for a being like me.  there is no extinct in my reality,  only evolution.  ‘ god is dead. ’,  would be an inside joke because god,  i,  will never die.  as long as there are faces,  i will be there,  i will exist.  the skin of another will be mine,  nothing will be left for them and everything will be given to me.  god is violent,  god is selfish,  god is me?   ❛  it would be a shame assailant ruined their faces.  ❜    imagine what i can do with the faces.  they were beautiful creatures that,  if merged,  can be transcendence.  i could still work with it,  the dead,  but what fun would i get?  what would i do with dead faces?  horror?  i can do that without all that,  just me.

     ❛  death shouldn’t be sad.  ❜   i think?  the fuck should i know.   ❛  they’re destined to die,  one way or another.  you get me?  ❜

crossbow with arrows for teeth. [BLACK SCREEN] torn limbs, laughing. [BLACK SCREEN] oil pours on the white of skulls like kisses while piano croons sensually. [RED SCREEN] [RUNNING TEXT]  

                   JUSTIFIED MURDER :D  

‘ morbid. sensible. ’ hands swing around, clasp behind back. the child's stance is careful, heart unbeating.  ‘ surprising. that’s not what most people think. ’  to compliment an encouraging curve of lips, fingers make fists, then unmake -- they are merchandise of attachment, instrument of violence. it can imagine the scene unfold, a dripping rose in heavy rain: the maniacal grin of weapons, the firm but loving preparatory grip, the melodic slide of skin off of bones. ( they groan, unbearably, underneath the child’s feet. one day they will enter the child through the feet, then make a home in the lungs. one who lives death will breathe it. )

    STUPID  ,  STUPID  GIRL.    stupid little girl who has grown back her blonde hair and lost her rebellion.    the scissors cut at the ends as if asking for another change  ,  but look at it through the reflection of the shears.    has anything really changed  ?    you still cry in the night and wake up to no one there to comfort your temples.    the walls are still closing in and they still laugh at you for not taking any immediately move.    you’re a chess piece glued to the board.

    but she can look past the laughter and ridicule this one moment.    flesh  is  all  you  can  see  of  me.    that has solidified something for her just one breath.    in a second a stoic glance drops temporarily from her face to show something of familiarity.    the gentleness that once was the woman.    ❛      s  -  say  that  again.      ❜    the last question seems to have flown right over her head.    slowly she leans forward looking closer.    is this flesh  ?

the suddenness assaults in punching bursts. lips part, wonder. stitched under skin is child -- souls of nine; roots -- souls of rot; and the rest is bitter ashes filtered through and becomes bloods bones lungs hearts. it remains where it is, the ashes remains where they are. motherly, descending from between the brows. it blinks, motherly, sees no more gentle hands prying this body apart, motherly, yours / i own you. dusts birth stillness, clinging to the eyelashes.

     ❛  TWO DEAD,  ❜   i find it funny,  the news it is.  not death,  though if i’m being honest,  sometimes it’s my favorite entertainment.  moving on,  where was i?  right,  the news.  i am all knowing,  yet i am left baffled.  over what?  ignorance.  they report about death,  what about it?  circle of life,  humans live,  humans die,  repeat.  they are afraid,  foolish.  death isn’t what they should be afraid of.  like me?  perhaps.  look at my hands,  i soaked them in blood,  theirs,  never mine.  i don’t bleed,  i make them bleed.   ❛  boy and girl, right where we stand.  ❜   i smell it,  their blood.  magnet inviting iron,  here i stand.  i want it.  what is?

     ❛  i heard they’re models.  ❜   their faces.

past the fingertips is ruins: all shapes and forms -- or the shadow of, foaming at the mouth. it dares a smile.  ‘ are you here for the dead part or the model part? ’   a house of teeth breathes into air and the atmosphere erupts, sizzles. in the throat of a creature sits a tide of sweetness that slowly frosts, ready to crack under the caress of a sharpened knife. tarnishment will sting. it surveys the immaculate aftermath, mouth closed, interest crushed like cotton candy of a melting evening. corpses float ungracefully, and it bites, and it tastes. a face without a face ( death without presence of death ) is gulping them all in and here it goes, willing.