no, she didn't die the way they said she did, and peter pan is a murderer.

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She smeared her lipstick on the back of his hand like their written sin, hoping (like a scar) it would last f o r e v e r. Maybe it would burn like their -fever kisses- when he tried to forget that tuesday morning bathroom -stall fuck, with his hands over her ripped-stitched bleeding lips to try and keep her moans pressed into his palm. His peter-pan hands flew over her skin like a little tinkerbelle, ripping wings from her back in a jadedjealousy, stealing her inky sparkle and shooting it up his veins like a viole(n)t pixiedust.

When t-he-y were done, he walked into Neverland and left her- on a broken-tile floor to stare at the graffiti tatoos on the back of the bathroom door, stick figure boys sucking eachother's sunburned s(k)in. Her shoulder burned blood between bitemarks, that deadly dust sinking into her satin skin- and she sat and she smoked her cigarettes without that sexy silver holder, tapping ashes into the toilet to the tune of "Breakfast at Tiffany's", which was playing over the tinny speakers, singing her to Neverland.

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(she left her cracked tube of lipstick beneath the sink and died with whitewashed lips.)