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Sweet Like Candy

We are so rich and pathetic and biding our time
until the fix fills in.
She bends over again,
she bends over for him,
she eats the yellow pills,
keeps her numb
and ready for something hard inside her soft.
How appropriate
she’s called Candy,
sweet treat, bitter thrill.
He wants to devour her whole,
that hole,
she knows it well.
We are the fakes,
we are the same preachers
yelling about the apocalypse
in a magnum condom box.
Where did she go after the bomb fell?
The cannibals tell stories of her demise,
of her blood shot eyes
weak from gnawing bones of diseased bodies
on the battlefield Love Me.
Her truth is a three time lie,
long licking lacerated tongue up her thunder thigh. 
When she was a little girl
they left her alone,
she grew up on bottles of whiskey that tasted
like her ancestral home.
The peat bogs filled with mummies,
they rise to greet a new century
artifacts of a simpler time,
when girls were girls
and boys were boys,
they fucked like respectable receptacles,
all smiles and hallelujah,
praise creation and my conscious cunt
cumming in an Irish grave to Waltzing Mathilda.
Look at the sky filled with sparks
of life dancing and screaming and singing
to the last great holy war.
Back from her week night binge,
sick in the porcelain bin,
calling her therapist for sexual advice,
aching to hear it’s not her fault,
it’s her father’s
it’s her mother’s
and her child molester brother’s.
These are wrong excuses
for the behavior that condemned her,
another loose night in something darker than pitch,
wallowing and craving,
never achieving or reaching
climax.
She’s just crying,
big wet salt balls
spill down ivory cheeks,
mascara running with her manic mood
and these prescription solutions.
She was so small
when she built her world
out of mud bricks
to keep the parasites from invading her skin,
digging deep within
making her chew the boys,
chew them like a rabid scorned whore.
She’s not there, she’s not there,
it’s just her frame stretched over the canvas
of a girl who once existed
like a red hot lust fuck,
that they sucked for her cinnamon flavor,
for her youth and purity,
for her stoned satiated smile
that spread like butter,
like her legs,
like her lips
when she made them promises
she never intended keeping
all the beers she stayed awake drinking.
Down she goes,
down down down.
And they all sang ‘wasn’t she something, isn’t she lovely’ 
in harmony.
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About deadendemily

Emily lives in Austin, TX. She has a minor in chaos and a major in spray paint. She likes Vincent Price and ABBA. She enjoys being covered in fake blood and writing horror stories. Most of the time she just hopes that her cat is not plotting to murder her, her cat being a minion of Satan and all. They would never suspect the cat.

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