a slit in the echo. a panic of if. she was content. watching the world end one blowjob at a time.
there was a poetry in the math. temperamental numbers to define a lifetime of flesh. there was a violence in the submission. a passivity so profound that still resonates.
there is no floor. only the empty space below us as we tread. there is no ceiling. only the infinite possibilities of our willful corruption.
she was dancing to the music of destruction. just as pink as she'd ever been. all spindles and fibers. as the patterns gasped into view. the threads knotted like victims. the needles as hungry as they've ever been.
there was a rest in the chaos. frail bones in an empty armor. there was a consent of all her ghsosts. to embrace every collasping bridge.