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That Girl is in a Bonfire

Save her. Please. She's been begging you to do something. She hasn't said anything but she wants you to do it. Please take her home with you. She's lonely.

You tried but, oh as it turns out,she decided you weren't her type. So she sprawled out in her casual self-destruction, drinking in the heat from her shame, indulging in exhaustion.

In search of an answer to a rhetorical question that caresses the collective social conscience. She thinks everybody else is in on the joke; stubborn, she insists it isn't funny.

With her eyes closed? A fool to all without a fool of her own.


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I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster


I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.

my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries

May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…