Phantom in Flesh
By: Bleached Roses

Note: Living for the hate of love is better than not living at all.

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Slain is the woman upon her obsidian crucifix with rusted nails embedded in her palms&spider lilies in her hair. Each breath becomes more&more struggled. Sanity could very well be a lost cause. Congregating around her feet, the lips of her betrayers touch sweaty heels with morphine lips. Hallowed prayers lift into heaven, the daylight whispers what she could never say. Once the strings are frayed, all repair is evaporated.

Brittle nails curl upon the cross,
fingertips caress the sin inside.
Chapped lips&blistered tongues cry out in utter
r e d e m p t i o n

She is emblematic of imperfection,
Something so normal&trivial,
But still a tragedy.

Sun scorched flesh arises from her grave.
Scar tissue&disaster are her attire.
A ghastly figure is she, the product of a good plan gone awry.

In her eyes blossom ladybugs&pixies..
and on her lips, stardust&fireflies.
Her skin is painted the moon, the eclipse of humanity has dawned.

Though in her hair, rose petals wilt&ivy turns black, those of a genocide find her taste appetizing. Like maggots, bitterness festers where emptiness once resided. Despite the corrosion, the corpse rises to her feet and strides on her toes. Legend says that her only sin was trying, but the worst crime would have been to give up. Prophets&angel marvel at her beauty, a blasphemy toxic to the tongues that praise her. She was birthed from those who abused their rights&died to the hands of the negligent. A phantom in flesh, as many would say, surviving only as hatred or determination.