Closer to the Bruise.

The skirt imitating her thighs feigned inclusion. Int the kaleidoscope that was her crotch. She sat. Fingers poised over oblivion. The dagger pre-painted with blood. A stopwatch in every breath. Her demeanor always a gentle apocalypse where even zombies fear to tread.

She took the window by surprise. As her lungs filled it with fog. Would it rain again. Would the glass recall. The errant tears of absentee gods. And empty angels tethered to deflated flesh.

The mortar between the bricks was still soft when he began scaling the wall. The other side could not wait a minute longer to be seen. The wall had failed him. He still saw. Or otherwise imagined he did. Prettier whores. Bigger houses. Faster cars.

The end of the world came quietly. Precarious dominoes gently fell. In a devastating succession. It had always been dark. But light is a relative. Of how much you expect.

Armageddon aside, she thought, the world overrated. So many corpses in her graveyard still to be buried. Eulogies are for the hopeful. Funerals for the distraught. Love is for the beautiful. And sex is for the lost.

Digging up her dolls. Dirty feet and knotty legs. Gnawing on the folds in her cunt. She had no trouble. Finding boxes. In which to bury the remains. Of calculated errors. And flattened nightgowns. On soiled beds.