there goes my top skull jack-in-the-boxing from your suzy-talks-a-lot eyelids. maybe i’ve been dead a long time. maybe i’ve been dead never ever. live with me forever in the medicine cabinet
where my limbs smoke ring doll-wards through your own reflection. spinning my head
all the way around is what i do for a pageant talent. every time you call my name,
you put a knife in it—my face wounds towards yours. i become nothing but a blood-aura
on your tooth fairy bedding. unlike yours, my wedding gown will lack knuckle-buttons & i envy.
you should have made me more opulent in the story where i’m saint-corpsed with gumball rings on every finger. let me live display-cased at the dead mall, cradling the body you’ve made us.
i’ll hold you too, if you’d like. we can lace together, spine glued to spine, a jar of our parts
now puzzled. then my head, free by comparison, can decapitate & become a locket
facing the wrong way. the backstage of night is what i’d like to see most—everything zombifying from the dirt of sky. i see the same stars as you.
there goes my head. i’m coming back to life.
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