Isn’t It Pretty
in viole(n)t lining?
Magenta melting into fuchsia formations;
seeping onto sun-kissed stars
and blood-drenched roses
falling from cotton candy clouds-
periwinkle puffs airbrushed in blush.
Isn’t it pretty to watch,
as white snakes bore into your skin
while you sink into the floor?
Your vandalized veins erupt,
scatter across chipped, beige walls.
The cracked ceiling gives in,
crashing onto scraped, wooden floors.
Faltered fragmentations of plaster
dispersed among a maroon rug.
A closed casket consumes your carcass:
red velvet dripping ichor
onto your empty epidermis.