Worn Palettes.

the world ends in question marks and misplaced semicolons.

black dogs. with thier teardrop eyes and oilcan skeletons. the desperate choke of the engine. as it idles. coaxing fractions of life from the small percentages of skin still intact. on heavy bones swollen with scabs.

what is there. what is hungry. torn kites on their broken strings. scarred fingers left with the tether. everything is distant. stories from the lips of gods to the ears of demons. the perpetual thirst that convinces us to keep searching for water in the desert.

her eyes are plaid as she falls asleep. the chaos and the color of wanting. her knfe is dull. Her lies are clean. As the wolf yawnd. still stranfed in the long divisison of skin.

small windows. huge openings. the edge of her blade like seldom gowns. empty buckets. on their way to the well. an intricate series of pullies. the scratch of eyelashes on fading visions.

she owns the monster. bits of tooth and puddles of sweat.  polish the portait. She flaunts her suicide. in soiled panties and faded lipstick. death is her canvas.