Monsters of Men

a queen's epilogue

She feels the rush of crimson

rust along the porcelain of

her skin as she pours palettes

of faux love into poems. She writes

of sad boys and saccharine lolitas

but little does the cosmic girl know

her soul is an ever escalating void

of celestial torrents. She's

sinking amongst the stars,

drowning in the tears Andromeda

weeps. Honey spills from her

lips as she chokes, bees

swarming from her eyes. She's a writer,

an oh so woeful writer. Roses bloom

under her finger nails and

the thorns spill ink from her skin.

They scribble the name in moon dust,

so the forthcoming generations will

heed her name in the gardens.

Chloe, Chloe, Chloe.