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Anna Mink Mar 2021
Pretty women
are fans of blue,
craft beer, and football season too.
Pretty women
can prefer girls
who strain their neck with vintage pearls.
Pretty woman
are feminine
when they wear fur pelts and sheepskin.
Pretty women
are still pretty
and don't need your views or pity.

Fu*k us pretty girls.
We’re pretty women.

~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 8th of March 2021.
Written 8th of April 2019.
Anna Mink Feb 2021
This mannequin is freer than me
I’m treed to taxes and age
She stands beautiful and pale beyond the beautician’s windowdoor
Glass cannot hinder one’s sight
A primrose crown my daughter made for her naked head now wilts
Still she is unaffected by life, the stoic Apolinaria

~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 21st of February 2021.
Written 21st of January 2021.
Anna Mink Apr 2021
small town boy got the gallows in eye //
distracts his loneself with a lullaby //
it was a strange day
and he tried to pray //
dont worry about where to draw the line
as itll be i //

~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 9th of April 2021.
The beginning to an original ****** song in the format in which I write.
Anna Mink Feb 2020
you were misunderstood;
for a stranger stranger.

you were instrumental
in his dandelion
wish to oblivion
for a stranger stranger.

you weren't nonsensical;
for a stranger stranger.

you were conceptualized
in his peripheral
to be reliable;
unlike stranger strangers.

~ A.M, F.H.
Published 19th of February 2020.
Anna Mink Jan 2021
im bold to hold you //
sand in folds of our underclothes //
you were still holding my hand
when a strange feeling arose
like rose taste in a gin
and yet again i feel blue //
it makes you question up at me
in depths of these conquerable waters
cold //

~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 9th of January 2021.
Anna Mink Jan 2021
Become hungover
And there is a strange hunger.
Sin is calories.

Drink clementine juice.
It's filling a hole in me
Like a new partner.

I'm made to forget.
Winter sun blinding my eyes.
We say goodnight now.

~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 19th of January 2021.
Anna Mink Oct 2021
A boy disinfected my blood from the carpet while he cried so hard, he hid his head. He had turned my page before the chapter was done. I otherwise sat still as stitches burst from my skin.

A vinyl I don't remember played. Distressed wood smelled of something repellent. The option for repentance was gone. God was never present, so how else could I forgive myself?

Back then we were alone. Children pale and misunderstood left alone yet alive in an attic, living an unending nightmare chain. We both lost something up there. He lost his innocent self and would watch my weight before I lost a baby on the carpet.

All I could do was forgive him again — that dirt poor excuse for a human.

~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 12th of October 2021.
Inspiration evolved from an incident in the book "Flowers In the Attic" from V.C. Andrews into a similar account of my own.
Anna Mink Jan 2021
Savage flowers open under a starting stormfront.
Mistress Sunshine's nowhere around; her presence expunged.
Despite Mother Rights, I'm blind from what she'd done before.
For hours my eyes are emptied of nerves she had stunned.

[ i loathe our sun and im glad we cannot share blood ]
~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published in 9 minutes on 15th of January 2021
(2:37 - 2:46)
Anna Mink Nov 2020
you're a stranger in a myth where there is no official beginning or ending
and i'm not worth your spark in my darkness nor every explosion you leave for me.
now im stowed in all that is left of you when it seems this cruel world doesn't need me
and i can't recall what inviting lies you've said when embers on my skin singe deep.

~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 28th of November 2020.
Anna Mink Jan 2021
May dandelion embroidery watch over you as you sleep.

It's nostalgic for me to speak in such a wishful language. It's foreign to you - this strange concept of peace and an unconditional, untethered intimacy where you no longer have to flinch at one's unpredictable movement.

Where was it while you grew? The trust? Where was it as you were forced to reconsider everything that is not yourself? And why now, as you sleep vulnerable, do you flinch at my touch?

~ A.M, F.H.
Written & Published 16th of January 2021.
Anna Mink Sep 2018
She took advantage of his disgruntlement, silence,
His shut-eye, and him giving in to laziness.
She became a fabled, stereotypical succubus
Of lore by giving in to her own selfishness.

~ A.M, F.H.
Published 19th of September 2018.
Anna Mink Feb 2021
The rumbling.
Creatures colossi move and blitz what once was Paradise with movements untetherable; their presences able to be conquered but at great expense.
Motherless children living dour, sacrificial lives look on with embers in their lungs.
Floodlit shoulders tauten.
“Is this the end?” They think.
“No. This is the beginning.”

~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 21st of February 2021.
Written 21st of January 2021.
Anna Mink Feb 2021
Beyond an unassuming neighborhood is a cornfield.
Underground was a playhouse.
Its owner, with hormonal eyes, took advantage of another innocent girl.
After ten flinches, fingernails became mementos.
The owner offered this girl a severance package with no promise of survival.
She rejected.
This owner failed reconsidering to not cut what fragile umbilical connection she had to life with a switchblade.
She died in the end, in what’s now a hole in fertile ground.

~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 21st of February 2021.
Written 21st of January 2021.
Anna Mink Feb 2021
The Daughter makes toothpicks from treebones while she waits. She uses them to pick hunger out from her mouth. Her week’s first real dinner will happen soon. From wildebeest migration to their awaiting dinner table, still undercooked meat sits in that aged iron skillet they tell nobody they own.

She waits. She’s accustomed to waiting, like her mother, the Hunter. Sometimes a day's worth of strength and calories came from a meal of dandelions and winter water while the Hunter is out waiting for her traps to ****** a life. So they wait.

Through the door comes Man. He's watercolorist emptied of mental flowers to create. His hands are bandaged and hold a toasted loaf of pumperknickle bread. The Hunter and Man kiss and wait and think in the quiet sizzle of meat.

Romanticism of rebellion they could do without, the couple. Survivorship comes in vulnerability of sweat-soaked underclothes from sleepterrors. But instead of wallowing in tears they make art of blackbirds and mockingbirds while waiting to **** them for survival.

~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 21st of February 2021.
Written 21st of January 2021.
Anna Mink Oct 2020
You bide my time, and cleanse your mind, and board in damped corners of mine.
You fall asleep at the wrong time to rouse when gongs resound inside.
None be so scarred to sleep as he; let him emerge for me to see.
Here I am; I've won already. On my God, how are you doing?

~ A.M, F.H.
Edited & Published 21st of October 2020.
Written 20th of October 2020.

— The End —