Welcome, dear Sirs.
Have a seat.
Today we’re gonna learn how to slaughter rabbits.
Cut along the dotted lines, where the flesh is the most tender. If needed, lift the skirt a bit, thereafter poke a hole in the stockings using a sharpened nail.
Rabbits are esteemed survivors. If you are swift, you can manage to snatch one just before it leaps into adulthood,
but be aware that the same rabbit might return
years later, standing in your doorway at 4am
covered in gasoline, bloodshot eyes and an AK-47 pointed at your skull
when you wake up,
gasping for air, and stumbling trough the balcony door
you may find them in the smoke of your cigarette, fondling down the inside of your throat,
or on the sticky pages of the adult magazines on the bedside table,
or in the hand that grabs and caresses you in the dark, while you lay naked
desperately aching to feel something,
When was your first time?
Who taught you?
Graceful rabbits, watch them go,
march in line towards the water’s edge
bleeding cotton candy and crying phosphor
We are the bloodied thighs
and empty beds
ripped off polyester ears
painkillers chugged down with absinthe
in the early morning
We are persistent.
If you cut trough our stomach, our hearts may sometimes go on beating
maybe 60 years,
but always a little faster than before,
in painful awareness
knowing what it’s like to have life ripped out by your own hands
and never forgetting the sharp intrusion
steel to flesh,
do you blush
or do you just
The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences. You can read more of my writing at Murder Tramp Birthday.