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Feb 2016
Tripping over his feet like so many shoelaces he danced clumsily
Calloused hands holding loosely onto the featherweight of my neglected body
Breath
alcohol tainted and stained with years of nicotine inhalation
raises goose flesh on the whole of my being
My vision is doubling
the dogeared books decorating the walls of his room
pristine white candles glowing hot and soft on the altar
wine glasses silently radiating with a deep maroon
He spins me slowly round
I imagine I look like the ceramic dancer
inside a music box
Inside a fantasy world all my own
My head is getting dizzy from the alcohol from the smokes from the movement
and I stumble
Everything round me slows to an unsure crawl as the world shifts horizontally
Hands grasp the air as my feet pinwheel
Flowing fabric floats away from my body
an angel falling
Mouth opens and a soft gasp is allowed
This happens within the seemingly unending seconds
between leaving the relative and drunken safety of his arms and
Cracking my skull upon the altar adorned in so much white flame
Everything stills and again
There is silence
I do not
hear his screams as my heartbeat matches that of a hymnal I used to sing in church and
I overflow with the memory
As my blood pools beautifully
Complimenting the darkness of the wine stained crystal
I imagine
The altar had been built for me
The corners of books folded to please my eye
The drinks the music the melancholy all exist for
My epilogue
My epitaph
My eternity
All of my poetry is about death
Emma Hill
Written by
Emma Hill  417
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   --- and Bianca Reyes
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