VIVIANE

Viviane, the night approaches with half notes, cutting the hymens of the flowers and radios. You have learnt to entangle yourself in the moon’s ghosts, getting your temples naked to tide them to your fingernails. Your soul is rotten Viviane, and your body is used. The shape that follows you is a thunder that leaves emptiness in mortals’ brains. On a spinal bed that is nothing but your desiccated vomit. 

The night approaches and crushes against your wall of impossibilities.