Go out and buy yourself some pretty pills
Take them for the purpose of a thrill
Exercise like it’s your religion
***** the good and bad decisions
Starving isn’t fun, but someone ought to do it
You were destined to be worthy and you knew it
You want bread, it’s all in your head
You want to be fed, but you wish you were dead
You were born with a knife in your heart
As a child you were struck by a hundred darts, of the cruel words of society and of the jittery snicks of the sugar plum fairy girls, with their angelic faces and porcelain skin, black sockets for eyes and with the devil, akin.
Angels don’t exist here, only devils within.
Scrub your raw, bleeding gums
Until pretty girl juice dribbles from the razor sharp corners of your mouth
Trickling past your rotting teeth
Your skin, sallow and an expired yellow.
Purple spider veins strung out across your arms and legs, connecting the dots from the gaping stab wounds made by your mother’s sharp, bone-handled knife, which you snuck from the kitchen drawer. Truly an antique. But now, antique and rusted with your blood.
Your mouth is filled with dirt and bugs
No more innocence, no more kisses and hugs
You aren’t your mother’s little girl anymore
You’re now the devil’s successful corpse
Dirt filled girls. Dead rotting girls.
Expired girls. Decomposing girls.
Hush, no one can hear you because
Dead, rotten girls can’t speak anymore
When they try to open their empty mouths, all that comes out are hollow screams and shrieks that pierce the void of the suffocating air in their coffin
Worms and roaches seep inside their bloated skin, making them itchy, itchy, itchy.
Dead, rotten girls can’t complain.
The devil’s thirst is quenched, and now he ate.
You begged for this fate.