bangkok belladonna

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Single socket swaying from ceiling
silhouette of shadows
blinking staccato on dirty walls;
dirty mattress and
bedside table
littered with empty bottles,
cigarette burns, and
fist-fulls of crumpled bills.

She kills herself each night;
repeated stabs from nameless faces,
selling sanctity to afford a new set of wings
to carry her far away from the neon city.

Bangkok belladonna,
with midnight eyes
leaking into crater mouth
etched onto moon face
of girl child;
hips like rolling ocean
that pull tides from western shores.

Graffiti of bent coat hangers
on broken hymen,
memories of when she broke open,
tiny legs closed around fist
twisted with bloodied sheet.

There is no tourniquet
to stop the spilling of soul,
no bandage
to bind together the splitting of surface
of a murderous heart.

She weeps the tears
of her dead babies;
mourns them in shallow graves
carved into track-marked arms;
a walking tomb,
grieving in moans
faked to stifle tears
and keep the money
rolling in.

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