Creatures


We’re the sweet creatures that wrap our guns in flowers and scent our bullets like late August evenings, and beg to be riddled with holes so the last rays of hope can float in. The sunshine burning through our veins, we’re the ones who seek out pain again and again and again. The shot rings out and it sounds like a ballad, or an opera, only we’ve forgotten how to tell if the performers are singing or screaming for the end of what they act like they feel. How would we know? It all looks the same when you’re reading lips with your eyes shut. We are the sweet creatures who are born to be snipers, but we’re not precise, we’re not even picky. There’s no safety switch with us, it’s a two-step tango of target-and-fire. Heaven forbid we get a clue, that the barrage of beauty we run through can leave corpses beside our footprints. Our mouths are guns. Love is every bullet in the chamber. And everyone wants to bleed.




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