poem: night terrors for dead girls

she is split open

once too often; they dip into her

for communion bread, for vampire

wine-tastings. she is fresco,

oil on canvas, chalk,

watercolor: there is something addicting

about virgins, about the girls

with universe side-splits

and the cosmos falling out of their brains onto

the dirty dirty ground.

you are the monsters, catching her

in the act, you are the victims, the villains.

she is the dreamer, the Dead Ideal:

she has fingers in the blood she is still

saved in all the ways you are not,

you gave up nothing; she is living between

her legs, waiting for her

once-and-future nobody

to untie the strings.

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