last rites

extreme close up: the girl called ugly. fuck, she was beautiful  once, back in the land of milk and honey. she danced in circles of her own composition, cued by a maestro unseen. she carried the radiance of heaven above. we dared to dream.her own hands have made truth of the lies. she is a bag of bones, dried daisy left to wither under the scorn of their flaming eyes. they have tried breathing water into the desert of her flesh, letting the aqueous hope flow through tired veins.

i think it too late: her lips are painted with dehydration's pale hues, splintered with a garnet lacework. a grandmother's lines edge the death of her eyes; she ages as paint dries. i did not know it was possible to eviscerate youth with a look and a touch, but cruelty's anvil has done that much and more to her slender frame.

the stranger will come in the night. i cannot deny the dies iræ waiting on my lips. the tears are dammed by the bloody rose of rage, blossoming with thorns, tearing at myocardial muscle.

she flutters away. the thorns dig deeper. there is no vale for the suicidal, there will be no bagpipes, no flags lowered. this war is not acknowledged, her death passes unmarked. they always do.