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We, the sinking bones of dead battleships. Our insides had rattled like the cages of Mockingbirds, we’d turned to rust, red hazed shows of metal, we. Shivered in the bones of us, dropped nails like we were hammers, pressed tin into skin, kissed goodbye to sanity. We, painted moans in the air around us, interior exterior pieces of iron core our spines breaking down pressing out, we, skeletons of ourselves. We, the artists of the damned, picked ourselves apart with skin like bolts of fabric, call me sick we’ve drowned in the salt shakers, the word weavers, the blasphemers, the treacherous, the fucking kings of their kingdom. We, hung paintings in the jut of our bones, gave as good as we got, splattered paint like it was oxygen, silver, oh darlin’ aren’t we precious. We, sanded down the edges of magnets and diamond rings and swallowed them and wondered where the fuck all the good things had gone. We, statues at the bottom of the sea, we curled, we distorted, we bended like fish food, let the sharks with their teeth sink into us, twisted metal we. We, screamed until our voices turned to the deceased, headstones of our characters, ghosts in their glory, we tore each other apart looking for the precious, the prim the proper the fucking place where our prayers would find peace. We, shot time like murderers, we, the bullets of the time frame, we squeezed the trigger before the microwave stopped, before the kettle boiled, before the phone rang, we. The salt shakers, the word weavers, the blasphemers, the treacherous, we, the kings of our kingdom.
