You love to touch me.
I pause slightly, exhaling the dusty cobwebs from my lungs, inhaling your pallid flesh.
“Don't try to pull me out of myself.” I sigh slowly, the words spilling from my tongue, hanging lethargically in the dark, slowly going numb. You’ve heard girls (like me) with silver tongues and long eyelashes spin an endless web of lies. I’ve been (am) that girl with a heart full of darkness that makes yours bruise. I speak in a voice as if perpetually plagued by cigarettes and booze, inches from your heart. We were born to lose. You believe me. My words and yours are doomed. Hell is infinitely scratched into my memory, all of me consumed. My skin has never looked like fate nor fortune forgave it. Yours looks like it’s never tempted either. But I’m sure you have scars too.
I’ve seen too many psychics, palm readers, tarot card witches and I get no particular answer to a question I never asked. My fortune is almost always my destruction, I never remember my past. I don't remember what the psychic said to me but I know I have died once before, three years ago this month, before my birthday. I hoard black light, neon-lit armageddons, fluorescent doomsdays. I overslept, blindsided, finding ultra-violent sunlight through curtain folds, thresholds, and marigolds. I never fall asleep before midnight, inches away from heavenly creatures, swallowing dying stars throughout the night. I am haunted and I think his kiss might kill me. He wins, I bite. -s