Her skin was like dusty old citrus peels.
Cold in the ground, she waits.
“Bad moon rising,” geriatric mutters from greasy gasoline counters.
I was passing through town, gates of death, in my disguises of human flesh, and hair, and fat cells, and floral depravity.
Her screams echoed in my mind.
“Choking back the migraine tears and electroshock scars with fingers gripping tightly the tubes of steering wheel and the glass electricity of alarms.”
Firefighters brought her body down from the scorched tree.
She was so tangled in its branches.
Now, finally free to go into the night and reap her revenge.
A luscious disease filled our nostrils, twisting us into characters, villagers.
So close, I held her that one last time.
My body wailing against her drainage and pounding fistfuls into the mushy brows of...of nothing. My cot was cold and damp.
My spirit, defeated.
My self, entombed.
Love had been punished.
That will be my accusation against all of you.
My fever rides me to the season of inferno.
Her hair was autumnal and stacked with river reeds.
Her eyes swayed with rot, glowing green with insectoid hymns.
The lumps of her body scratched at me.
Forever in her baptismal waves.
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