I don't have time for leather and lace.
The fashion statements now
are not the same.

Scars and stitches embroidered with care,
mud-caked knees,
paired with a pretty bruised face.
Crimson red silk pools down my thighs,
grow your fingernails long,
and scratch out your eyes.
Claw at your neck
to save your own life.
Walk on innocent hearts,
but don't step too hard.
Keep the broken ones,
in an empty jar.

Now hang the skeletons
in a neat row,
make sure they won't move
before you close the closet door.