Like the wings of the tattered bride.
Black, and blue.
Corrosive, and bruised.
Sewn together with tattered thread.
As you push the needle in her head.
She gasps for breath she doesn't have.
Wisps of the past.
Behind the glass.
Scars, and stains.
She feels no pain.
No more.
The life that was taken the night before.
The wounds they wither, and bleed.
Her grave covered in weeds.
Her grave engraved with lies.
Says she was happy.
Says she was alive.
The worms.
The slugs.
The lives undone.
Her heart is no longer there.
It's replaced with a rotten tomb.
Coffins filled with unwanted things.
She sings a song with words unknown.
She breathes breath with an undertone.
By: Alicia Hruza
