tears like molasses, babe, and there's no honey either. dark sap into my tongue and dripping down my spine and i am not so sweet.
i do not bleed shooting stars— i get a headache from them. ricocheting off the creases of my brain until i am a melting, star dust mess.
and there's tapping outside the dirty blue door and all i can think of is grey monsters with knives for teeth and they wait outside with greasy hands. try to touch my face with bacterial palms and infect it with green needles. stuck under my molasses skin— i feel gross.
cough out my lungs and maybe i'll be able to breathe; they're worthless anyway when the flowers once there wilted into decay. how can i grow something that's already dead?
the noir walls closing in on me and i'm already claustrophobic but i can't move because i'm rooted to the tile floors. and the oxygen is moving up through the draft and suddenly i am in space, but i don't have a mask, and i really just want to go home.
viens me chercher, ma plus chère mort. vous ne le regretterez pas.
(come and get me my dearest death. you won't regret it.)
