Anatomy of a Deadgirl

My skeleton is a barbed wire framework glossed over with spun glass and glitter-glue stars.

(Break it.)

My skin is melted magma, sizzling upon contact and twisting in imperfections and pimples and moles.

(Burn it.)

My blood is poisoned snake's venom, thick black sludge that is retracted slowly by a razor's gnawing gore, withdrawn from a well deep within my soul.

(Bleed it.)

My organs are burbling instruments, bubbling a glutinous rhythm.

(Oust it.)

My hands are hole-filled gloves sewn on to stubby, chubby stumps of arms.

(Cut it.)

My ribcage is a birdcage, trapping the anxiously fluttering butterfly that is trapped within my heart and desire.

(Lock it.)

My tongue is sandpaper, smoothing my words to no more than sawdust, falling limply to the floor in a kind of morose rain.

(Trap it.)

My brain is dust- and muck-filled [cobwebs stretched across those cells that change the mood], monster occupied, and afraid to think.

(Kill it.)

My eyes oscillate, glazed over with clouds and nightmares and the reflection of fear and death staring through a mirror.

(Close it.)

My heartstrings are harp strings, on which a summer sweetness serenade may be played, or else unfastened one by one until there is just the frame remaining, no substance and no way to play.

(Keep it.)

My soul is an ever-blossoming doodle in the margins of some important paper, words embellishing magically to slowly fill the blank space, darkness and sketches of doom slowly overpowering the stars and sky.

(Stop it.)