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Welcome to Arkham
( case study :: the repentant whore, driven mad by her own hands )

walls seal air, tight,
in the vacuum of a scream
bouncing off soundproof cages;
hands, gnawed off and dripping
to prevent fingers from constricting 'round throats.
bloody nubs pressing up
against moonlit window panes
looking for a way out

she aches
from deep within the bowels
of a belly full of tears
choking on souls, devoured,
stomach their cries
beating up against insides.

becomes bulimic with guilt;
vomits up her history
of knights in shining armor,
spits out
breastplates pierced by her wicked ways,
visions of victims laying impotent on the floor.

is the mask of the whore,
the masochistic martyr
licking wounds of self-pity
with the same tongue
used to wear down backbones
of former lovers.

she speaks in poems
recited backwards to rewind the lies
offered up as dowry for the marriage of her heart.
as she folds herself into corners,
arms full of knees hugged up against chest,
Poison Ivy choked by her own vines.
hair matted and twisted,
a faux medusa
rocking in the darkness.

look deep into the mirror, little girl.
etch the memories of her tears
onto your glassy eyes
and you will see
there are no such things
as superheroes and villains,
just angels with wings
ripped, torn, and stapled back together
in varying stages
of falling

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