The veins in her skin, raised, like intricate spider webs
her skin, so pale - transparent, almost, the blues and violets pulsating, through and though
the razor balde song, no longer satisfactory.
quenched with a new thurst for the enchantment of slaughter at her own hand
petals fall from the rose, disenegrating, hopes of starting over, replaced by plots of vicarious decisions;
feel death through victim,
a revelationary corispondance between murderer and murdered formed by lusts so unable to fufill. dreary days of shakespear plays and wines so dull in elevation led to loathsome, hateful games that dripped with sin and soaless killers.
