She observed her head in the clouds and thought about knives.

How did we get here? The rhythmical colour green, evasive oblivion.

Everything inside of her was light. She projected an ease that felt surreal.

The closer you get to her, the better you can smell the blood, it’s everywhere.

Under layers of dry powder, stagnant, on her entire body, culminating.

And you press your curious face on her skin and realise how violent she really is.

 

And whilst you tire yourself, admiring her, her eyes will widen in ecstasy.

You confirm the artifice she evoked and she bathes in your compliments.

When you speak of your own liberation, she panics as if you mentioned her death.

And she dances and there is no space between the two of you and she pretends that the

Blood she wears is a floating dress and that she is courting you amidst the paintings of

Her amorous crimes. And you’ll have lost yourself before all the lights go out.

800px-Helleu_XXXI_Étude_d'après_la_même

“Étude d’après la même” by Paul César Helleu (1859-1927)

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