volatile

spring is two-faced. mercurial. faithless. devoted.

her flesh is soft as ice and hard as snowmelt. her breath is a chasm of decay, rimed with petrichor and saffron, manifesting murders of crows on the exhale. she has a face to match: weather-worn and colorless, with mud-stained teeth gleaming under blazing ice-colored eyes and a crown of crisp, sugary flowers.

she ends every velvety caress in an iron pinch and then smooths every black bruise with a kiss. she winds a line of tender kisses down your throat and leaves a messy trail of bright blood behind. she beckons you with kiss-swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes, sighing rapturously as she kicks you square in the face. her hands are as delicate and pallid as doe’s milk. she uses them to break open your chest, crushing your ribs with a wet crack and then gently stroking your heart.

she rides wild over the mountains and sleeps fitfully on the north sides of trees. she lays face down in straw-colored meadows and thrashes there, ecstatic.

she wears heavy boots with soft soles and they’re quilted thickly with the bodies of her lovers. not all of them are dead.

she wants you.

she hates you.

she doesn’t even remember that you exist.

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