slither

We’re attracted to death at the edges. In purple bedrooms, we hang diagrams of butterflies and tell stories of serial killers. Throw our popcorn at the butcher with the knife. Our eyes caked with mascara and a little too wide and fluttering. Our pink canopy beds framed by stars and fever. The hammock swing home to satin pillows and hushed secrets. Play Spin the Bottle when our parents fall asleep. Biting our lips, we swear by blood kisses to never tell a soul. Our white dresses perfumed by longing and bergamot.