making sense of it all, not war anymore.

Oh god more blood, does it not stop, there’s hearts to unlock, and pistons to cock, waiting for someone to sing her a lull a bye bye, dug herself out the ditch he left her in, semi-fictitious, quarter-delicious, vivid images as he tried to pillage villages, she pulls eyelashes and cartilage from her skull, silver needles catch the light of the moon, sewing fleshy thread enhancing glittering violet wounds, her pretty lips draw away the pain still, like being killed.

Living on icing, gleaming diamond spiders, zigzag lost its pulse, scissors excluded, excuse her, she’s secluded, wondering if she’s deluded as he exudes daily ruses, remote sensor, batteries not included, point in case concluded, Judas words were fluid and he was quids in. Lashed fish out of water like leading lambs to the slaughter, inflamed proclamations that he caught her, she was still someone’s daughter, he ought t’have analysed the situation a bit better, she should have requested advice from the confederate…

But he was inky clean, like a squid, under the surface she didn’t quite see, another blistering statistic, another sadistic pin-prick, less of the pin though and more of the prick bit, nihilistic son of a– her sword, drenched in her own blood and flaky jaundiced kissed skin, pierced the coursing curse of justice within.

ink is free, so...

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