fissures de ses pores—
and there's a certain grace in the way
the rivulets of ink seep through the cracks of her pores.
the splattered and poison dabbled skin,
soaked in the heavy and damp permanence
that weighs down her limbs in coils and snares—
a spider's web of intricate toxins spread over the flesh,
intoxicating her bloodstream with its venom.

but her oil moistened lips are carved
in a crimson smile.
"Vous voulez un avant-goût?"


a/n—I don't actually speak French that well, so feel free to correct any mistakes, please.
music—зимой.