Doll

Pretty little walking corpse
with a china doll face
high on the afterlife of discord
yellowing from the cigarette smoke
that strips the sheen from her ash lips
nicotine seeping out of the crackling pinpricks
of her pores

We wear the blackberry hedges of fashion
and keep a bucket under the bed
for when the bulimic kick
frights us from sleep
with the compulsion to gag up all our lies
into the designer shoes
we sold our diminishing tits for

It’s a long way down
and the stairs are steep
our skeletons leaving creaks along the planks
because even bones aren’t filled with air
and we’re no angels illuminating the rot of purity
on the stairway to heaven

Thoughts follow the gag ball mumble
of last night’s fetish feast
that once again failed to make us feel alive
beneath the touch of faceless pretties
that could be any stranger
we’ve tripped past on the street
on our way to darker sins
in alleyways that still wear our underwear

There are cracks in the paint
and bruises in the eyelash prints of panda eyes
pretty little walking corpse
high on the afterlife of discord
skin pungent with the scent of life’s decay
she’s been looking for heaven
in all the wrong places

© Indie Adams 2014