He was a secret, tucked underneath her bed and
embracing the sixth blood stain on Jesus's womb.
She was a wedding dress, painted white with the
clouds she wore, and the sun shone throug her
pupils. They were a problem.
He had an attraction to one of seven devils's
dancing upon children's tombs and mausoleums.
She had no fantasy of serpent hearts pillaging
her body and no dream of becoming Mother Goose Grim's
object of mangled mindscape depression. This, they, them. Was a problem
No man is an island. No body is a resting place for
a perverted escapade. No soul knew
about this problem. Months later, she
had a secret under her bed, ensnared by the same stain
he embraced. A paradoxical union beneath the
eyes that seek. He threw black paint on the wedding
dress of clouds she wore. He harvested
secrets like her, inside his mind. She burnt them, yet they froze her.
Cold forever, her soul icing over. She can never forget his
breath, icy with the stench of one thousand and one desires.
One thousand and one desires fulfilled.
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