Prepare for the ache, memorize the thin miles of blue green vein under your skin so you can chart the ebb and flow of potential bruises.
Victim. Masked girl, see how she flies. Falls. Dies.
Watch her make love letters in blue curls, blue dress, forget me nots, loves me yes.
Watch her play house, but never a mother. Watch her play brother, uncle.
Sundown. Sky grows darker with the grime of the underground. Cheap powder, high relief.
Glitter stills in the air, hanging on to dust motes. High jack.
Sometimes her knife slips. At noon, all doom. Darkened laughter. Because injustice. Because woman. Because even molten lava cools. Because razor blades. Because her seams are tailored, but not well. Hiding a secret, but never well. Because no door bell, no peep hole. Blind faith. Fate?
She played the death games with dangerous men and she didn't win. But oh, she didn't lose. Never lost. Just bit off more than she could chew. So she swallowed hard and waited for the hurt. The bleeding. Pain, she knows that old sting. Not quite a familiar friend but something nostalgic.
Watches the red blossom purple like her skin is spring.
The day has lost its luster. Lighting birthday candles, hoping one of these expired wishes will catch flame and spark. It's happened once before. The time she saw hell wallpapered in shades of peeling yellow.
Likes to play detective, fancies herself a good liar. Poker face of gloom.
No reason for polite, for stare, for hands shaking over hidden knowledge.
She is awaiting the burn. Summons strength. Face twisted into a smile pulled by string. Puppet, watch me dance. Show time. Red velvet knees and stained glass shadowed pages. Because ink dries faster than salt confessions.
Because uncle brother and mother are no longer child's play. Rosary choke-chains. Mary was never her savior, tell us, Pope: where was god? I know demon, I know devil. I know pomegranate and mother. I no longer play daughter, I graduated to something more. Silver screen harlot. She's got big, big dreams for a bedroom starlet.
Submerged in the toxicity of blue daytime. Remember when you wanted to make it big? Before your skin became scar and bandage, before you sacrificed body in hopes of keeping your soul?
Poor ******. Poor half-girl. Poor daydreamer, star wisher.
Burned alive, the headlines said. No one read the story, thought char and bone were enough. Didn't read the follow up, didn't read about the missing teeth after the third day. Can't be bothered with the Phoenix, didn't want to realize there is a creature empty enough to poke holes in her brain to let the sun in.
Some wanted fire. She bathed in kerosene. Carried matches behind her eyes.
Not slaughter, sacrifice.
They call her myth.
They call her live wire.
They call her contagious.
They check for symptoms.
They say her demise was a vaccine.

Waves crashing, upon my heart,
All I've come to know, was ripped apart,
My clean arms, have bleeding scars,
My thoughts, have been butchered,
Emotions never ending, bottled up inside,
The screams you never hear, the ones I always hide,
In this lonesome room, yet another,
Suicide.

Words don't come to me anymore
silence grows deeper in my soul
the pain gets stronger and stronger.

My hopes, they turn to ashes
at the touch of my hands
I lose them, they slip through my fingers
and they're no Phoenix bird,
won't ever reborn.

Disappointment,
Failure
At every step I take.
My life,
a sinking ship.
My fears consume me day by day.

My love makes me rot inside
light burns my eyes,
music hurts my mind,
my soul is full of scars,
hopeless,
empty,
weak.

I shall die in the darkest silence.

The massive stars
give all their fuel in the night sky
somehow, time will come
they will explode and die
One's existence will turn black
and will eventually fade.

Today bears the weight of erstwhile trepidation.
Uncertainties exhumed only to be hung up as ominous flags.
Black as night my widowed heart paraded through the procession.
Garbed in ash encrusted, sequinned frock, hemmed train all tattered in rags.

Herald the face with no features yet obscured behind a chiffon veil.
In hands, a bouquet of black roses, worm-eaten to the stems.
The mourning sun only gave the weakest glow,
feeble attempt to rejuvenate all that is stale;
to imbue the shimmer back into forsaken jewels and dulled gems.

Her entourage kept up with heavy feet; all grim and sullen.
Also faceless... Armed with pitchforks and torches.
Today they will draw much; having thirst for crimson.
Today they witness her death as the black parade marches.