| in a painted gardenshe says; flowers take shapes, bodies take forms
and which am i? demanded the atheist
having no creator
having no purpose
i will be my own artist
since every colour of paint looks the same in the dark
there is no reason for subtleties
blood glistens
but so does the gloss on my mouth
as i prepare for your smile
you have perfect teeth for fresh fruit
she says; these are the flower's children
she says; these could have been something more
but this is how we painted them
being the creator
in denial, you are still able to smile
as if there are not a hundred hidden meanings
behind your gums
and her little ceramic calcified pearls made perfect for a necklace
made perfect for strangling
weeds grow just the same as plants we've picked
so my paintbrush is stained red
but art has no purpose, you say
well then, neither does god.
we all place our faith in something.
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| prompt 165: Write something using the phrase "exquisite corpse." Any form
a truth to deny;
the comfort between our pressed bodies
stretches the skin on my elbow
until it is so thin it tears
and so we entangle ourselves
wanting to get so close we are willing to suffocate
i drink your sweat
i breathe you in
and the truth, which i cannot deny
is that i'm willing to die for this
because at least we'd make
an exquisite corpse
two bodies melted into one
we dislocate our arms
as we wrap each other in bloody waste
i pull my skin around you
and you stick your tongue in my mouth
we are more than our doll bodies
more than papier-mâché hearts
we insist on being filled
as we hold hands, as we hold bodies
forgetting the truth we must deny
that no matter what we do
we will still be separate
does it hurt to be alone?
i fall to pieces, and you stick me inside you
broken limbs combined
until like a two-headed dog
we are one, freak of nature.
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