They

The children sit and waste so much time writing stories about lovers they've never had. They just didn't seem to understand that without going through with it, without pulling the trigger they'd never get anything. They wrote their sins in black and white. These bloody gashes carved on each other's backs with loving mutilation and careful calculation. They made love drinking wine and whiskey and moaning into the noontimes. They had dictated their own end, their own beginning made of past pain and melting walls. Each disappeared into the other bending their pain around their lips. The cycle of their love twinning in and out of scars, knitting their own bloody pierced muscles. They beat themselves to bloody pulps under the guise of religion, their love being their religion, their love being their slavery. They took thorns and made them into whips tying them careful with black nails and wicked disguise. In the closest moment of love they sliced chunks of flesh into brutal scars, massacring each other's backs with their determination.

They filter between soft sound and close capture and brush off the effervescent complaints. Bathed in darkness and virgin wine they dance between sunset and rise. Cutting apart the cloud statues is only another way to say good-bye and they fall down into the valleys and sweep away with the wind. They are dusty on their way out of the desert and they slide slick knives between thick thighs. Taking shots of oleander liquor along the rivers edge, they carve fresh veins into their wrists and watch the slime, the goo as it drips beneath the lies. They black out the mirrors with ecstasy.

The shadows tell nighttime stories at the foot of their bed. The scrutiny of the high beams chases their dreams into angsty corners. Crawling up the walls in vertical ecstasy. He's death like as he holds her softly whispering air. He shatters her dreams as he showers her with love- there is nothing but lies between the words. And she reads between the lines tracing the track marks and breathing blood and vapor. Their dying in their own substance abused relationship. After she left he wished he could dial into her but there was so much loathing there and he had fear. She just wanted his voice as hope on the other end but the receiver lay silent. The distance is murder, knowing that she doesn't even matter to his life, knowing that she's fading into darkness. It takes distractions to confuse reality and shorten times. Delusions turn her into paranoia, terror. She scares herself to lose him but begs to be alone. They mirror each other, brutal mind scars edged beneath her skull.

The smoke curls into itself a floating orgy of scent and sleek deception. It waves and flows like fog and drags the air down with it. The bundles bleed golden sparks and embers. They inhaled slowly, graciously, and curled around each other forming and reforming in the heavens. They are cloud shapes moving like opiates through the sky's veins. Each day is just another gash they carve into each others' thighs with their teeth. They're slowly healing as the days continue progressing, fresh skin growing over ragged edges. They step through the house trolling down the hallways but the pitter patter of children's footsteps is over shadowed by impeding, impending gloom.