figments.

whore, they chime after her, their voices so lovely on such a harsh word, confused, startled, a crow bleeding in the snow, breathe in deep, hush your tumbleweeds, you don't know, oh, oh, oh, the moose wild moon bellows of hopeless love, and we croon beneath its musical tears.

aren't you a pretty little thing, he whispers to her on a crackly old voice, like a record player, but his eyes aren't kind like they're portrayed in the black and white films of jazz bands, and she swallows down the tatters of newspapers decreeing blasphemy against her crocheted broken doll skin, the way lips melt when it's too quiet to laugh.

this song makes me feel like you, she whimpers, but no one hears her over the mourning wolves slashing their blood riddled jaws to eat up the white sky as they ponder when the storm will begin to crush their silk wired smiles, but she wonders when you will miss her carcass rotting beneath your porch because she loves you.