Miscarriages

There was a pen in her left hand. A cigarette in her right. The fickle restraints of happenstance. Cyanide capsules punctuating every sentence from the her first word to what she imagined would be her last. In corsetted daydreams she gives blow jobs to death. A lie so determined. It's almost true.

The little monsters circumstance will breed. From inside the wounds of our savior. Tomorrow is not at fault.

Certain lies can save us. The prolific dogma of lovers tearing our heavnes from empty pages. Those clowns in their frightening makeup. Smiles drawn in. Tears painted. Rushed liaisons with yesterday.

All those hours pregnant with us.

Stillborn.