Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction
Beneath The Skin By Ellen Gallagher
You took a shine to her; she spat on your shoe A dream come true.
Cocaine love with a side order of salad, It’s a shame the blonde never winked.
She burns you. Infuriates you.
The Fahrenheit shared between the passions in your head.
Cytoplasm from her throat, obscene apples juggle in the dungeon,
Drink up the tablets, swallow the madness.
Creep. A lonely peeping Tom, Stuffed birds in your house. Caw. Meow. No-one sees the humor.
Fears drawn from the curtains, a strand of hair, stroke the palm.
Bodily chemicals, digest it all,
Even her eyes,
Or keep them safe in a vase.
Rip the silk and watch it bleed.
Infect her mind, look at her breathe. Oh, the murmurs. The rhythm of her pulse,
77, 78, 79, Take her beating heart, the ribcage opens for you.
Her chest heaving, repulsed, a maggot’s chewing her skull.
You realize the psychosis, it’s not her fault, Guilty possum breaks valve, Glass frame, flame, simmer her woven witchcraft, Heathens at her bedside, Why don’t you hide in the cupboard?
You don’t need a canvas or photo
You know what she is
Down to the grains on her ankle.
999 obsession, how come you’re scared of voicemail?
You watch her undress, an unraveling candy bar, Take a bite. She tastes bitter and cheap.
Be patient, mad dog, dry your saliva,
Let it crack on your lips and savor the kiss,
Fulfill your desires, animalistic fangs, and putrefy the virgin, there’s so much more beneath the skin.
You were bored of the bone, So you chased the rabbit, Don’t go down its hidey hole, you’ll never escape, vicious creature.
Quacking bodices, shivering at the touch
First, contaminate her spine, then the bladder. Tender muscles bursting,
She is painful.
Your filthy hands, They reek of sin, only one
Go in the cabinet draw; look for pills that vanquish the monster
It’s always the silent ones that cause trouble, No woman will like you, dirty fool.
“When I grow up, I want to be a masochist Tell them to cremate me between her thighs”
Dead fingernails twitch. Evaporate the leather belt.
Limp dolly in your arms, you thought it was fun.
For Christ’s sake, get out more.
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