Crown Tipping

Such a sad state of affairs, claustrophobic in her speech.
One of those “X” marked for defect; she wasn’t made like the rest.
Upon the skin you could see her text.
One line for every breath, in the shape of a chemical misprint. Just a tangled girl with bandages draped like cotton fields.
She claimed she was drawing a map
to connect a constellation.
But the weight of the world broke her spine. She felt the crumble of her architect.
And knew she had not enough hands
to sift through the ruble. You’re drowning girl, best find your peace. You’re drowning girl.
So I brought her to the road and lined her with the rest.
In perfect order on a final night, all aligned like fathers neck ties.
She gave a look that fell behind her throat. Those dying words like a broken clock.
A final phrase half past lucid and a quarter sure.
She let her words ring throughout the night. A dare I have she said and I pick you.
I dare you, I fucking dare you.
So I grabbed her thoat, and laid her soft and sweet.
Fed her gums with a side of concrete.
She lay her teeth upon the curb.
A talk of end and a dare to do it. I tipped her crown.
She is no more.
She Is No More