remember me every time the sky begins to bleed pestilence on your conscience

"Smile, pretty girl
don't you dare let them
think for a moment  
you're
real."
 
 
 
 
You look at me now as if I've grown soft; as if the crime scene harbored behind my breasts have been neatly tucked away in a cold case file for rabid dust bunnies to smoother silent, and fuck against in abandon.  
 
It's true, I've murdered the burn out but her resin still lingers in those all too familiar graffiti smiles two miles over.
My memories are insectile born, and you penetrate thier phosphorescent wings with your fickle, reminiscent talk of black opera romance.
 
You clip onto those ideas between your tanned, skinny fingers like tweezers. A kickstart zippo lazily adjacent in your other hand. My limbs twitch in synchronization with the flames.
 
Instinctual.  
Habitual.
 
Muscle memory straining for the bait. But you mistake my surfaced eagerness for foolishness. My mind wavers no more, and you taunt merely the exoskeleton of my past ignorance.
 
I am the growing evolution of a violence un-forgotten, and you?  
 
You will always remember me when the sky begins to bleed pestilence on your sorry conscience.