Tant mieux

She stitches her lips with little white lies
Then tastes wet iron, as the silvered needles sway like windchimes
Beneath her noisome, tarnished words

Harboring an appetency for secrets and deceit
Her euphonious whiplash would beguile callers with playful dispraisals from sanguine smiles
Then she’d lie awake in her chamber, counting the bruises; accompanied only by the sillage of lust and loss

Scooped from beggar’s row, this maiden’s flaxen locks flowed in stark relief to the gutter and grime
More striking still, her brilliant, snowglobe eyes
Niveous orbs holding countryside châteaux, into which she’d escape amid the violent violations of her virtue

Now a subtle snarl ever cleaves these camouflaged lips that overbrim with her miasmic verse,
but only as her interrogations end, per the de rigueur of the oldest profession
The malison of a magdalen, forever gyved to her lot

A femme fatale armed with a buss and a bodkin
She’s an intelligencer hunting her abusers in an ambuscade of ambrosia
And sometimes, before her violent violations for their villainy, she sees them recall the countryside châteaux in her hoarfrost eyes

Tant mieux
They’ll find no refuge in those snowcapped sanctuaries, she knows all the hiding places
Her raison d’être was born in those bloody, tear-filled halls
And she takes great pleasure in providing them the tour

art by Losber C. Riera

*05.05.18.12.34