mother prostitute suicides

they tell me

love is a pretty sight, darling.

like sunshine pressed on

coloured glass,

raining rainbows into my soul

that lies on a soiled mattress,

tattered and ugly

like the girl atop it;

they tell me

happiness is a carousel, darling.

a lullaby of laughter

that shirks the soul,

tracing patterns across it

like they did

across my skin;

some men and some more,

some were feathered caresses

of faceless lovers

and some, the fading purple

leftovers of monsters;

my body was

a battleground

sprayed with purple stars

that died long ago

forming a constellation

enveloping my soul

lying dead in

the rainbow rainlight

within the ugly girl;

they told me,

sacrifices pay off, darling.

that I’d smile and laugh

and fly with wings

and only the wind

and nothing else

would touch me

in an embrace;

they told me lies, darling.

pretty lies, hidden behind pretty smiles

spewed by pretty mouths

that have never been kissed

by the pretty sight of love;

so I took the sharp silver, darling.

and carved on my skin,

my very own

constellations laced in red

that begun in pain

and ended in symphony;

they told me

love was as pretty

as a songbird, darling,

and it was as pretty

as the constellation

embellishing my curves;

my my, what a pretty sight, twas darling.

in the rainbow rain,

her soul looked polished

and the angels sang

an ethereal melody

and the battlefield

transformed, darling;

the purple of the men

drowned in the red of her demons.

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