< Issue 5 >
Debris. She’s Not the Killing Kind
by Jennifer E. Hudgens
The tenacity of each octave her voice sets ablaze
Echoes heavily, shattering beneath her skull
This is when she feels most ignored
Absent
Invisible to any naked eye
Or salivating mouth
She will feed the starving with copious amounts
Of blood
Bone
Dissected
With bent fork-dull butter knife
So feeling has greater meaning in the interim
liturgy goes unchanged through hundreds of un-noticed seasons
Heartbeats proven ambient
Like shelter
From too many sharp tongues
Balled up fists
Rusted razor blades that long for collision against her flesh
Find a full glass of merlot
Resting safely upon the table
Next to the palate created of her corpse
Warm your gullet
ensure your belly is no longer anxious
In waiting
For the taste of her
Imbibe her honey soaked thighs
Reminiscent of religion
Gorge on a feast of chewy muscle
Weary womb left empty treasure chest
Always longing to be filled by black diamonds
The fever always ticked a little bit deeper than the skin
Always willing to impress
Crowd always watching
Bathing rabid wolves
Unraveling like innocence
In her summer dress
The crash her conscience makes
as it is wrestled to the ground with lilac embossed cotton
clocks sway in slow motion
almost pausing
mirrors only the tragedy left in the wake of your touch.
Debris. She’s Not the Killing Kind
by Jennifer E. Hudgens
The tenacity of each octave her voice sets ablaze
Echoes heavily, shattering beneath her skull
This is when she feels most ignored
Absent
Invisible to any naked eye
Or salivating mouth
She will feed the starving with copious amounts
Of blood
Bone
Dissected
With bent fork-dull butter knife
So feeling has greater meaning in the interim
liturgy goes unchanged through hundreds of un-noticed seasons
Heartbeats proven ambient
Like shelter
From too many sharp tongues
Balled up fists
Rusted razor blades that long for collision against her flesh
Find a full glass of merlot
Resting safely upon the table
Next to the palate created of her corpse
Warm your gullet
ensure your belly is no longer anxious
In waiting
For the taste of her
Imbibe her honey soaked thighs
Reminiscent of religion
Gorge on a feast of chewy muscle
Weary womb left empty treasure chest
Always longing to be filled by black diamonds
The fever always ticked a little bit deeper than the skin
Always willing to impress
Crowd always watching
Bathing rabid wolves
Unraveling like innocence
In her summer dress
The crash her conscience makes
as it is wrestled to the ground with lilac embossed cotton
clocks sway in slow motion
almost pausing
mirrors only the tragedy left in the wake of your touch.
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