Dead Flowers



There’s safety in embrace, and yet these bones require something more. From biting mouths to the sticky dancefloor, we dive through the mass of drunken idiots we no longer wish to be a part of. This place doesn’t suit us, so we down one last drink and disappear as someone spills the blood of a lover who picked the wrong time to be brave. The days are dull, but the nights burn like the corpses we see on the outskirts of the city. So many victims, but this doesn’t concern us for life is long, and we are young, and our bodies pulsate at the merest hint of copulation. Neon kisses against a backdrop of gang warfare and virgins with desperate wombs. They cry at being unloved, but what’s to love in a world where being soiled is lusted after more than anything else. Strobe lighting as we pass before glazed eyes, the solution to our problems remain in the magic hour where we lose ourselves so freely. Flesh stripped from bone; our insides slip between the layers of what’s real and what’s not. There’s mercury in the palm of her hand, and as she rubs it into my flesh, there are no words left unuttered. Sliding off her bra, I pinch her nipple and taste the salty sea air on my tongue. Pressing it against hers, we merge in the same time it takes to run a red light looking for another bar to debase ourselves. Sneaking onto a private balcony that overlooks a population we care so little about, we look at the stars then go fuck in a toilet cubicle stained with fluid and graffiti. She’s emo; I’m a Shadowman. She’s a slut with nothing to prove; I’m a failed writer looking to take down as many lost souls as possible before I’m swallowed completely. Feeding her algorithms, she blinks twice to say yes, and as we bear our teeth, I can feel how flowered up she is. But deep inside, she’s just as dead as me.

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