The Devil In Us

Plagues. Loose nightgowns. Tipping the dominos. A calm cascade. In quiet revenge. While she waits for her skeleton to grow back. A cliff on the tip of her finger. Frantic for buttons to press.

Sirens and saddle sores. More than motivation. As she changes again. Shuffling the numbers. Tomorrow in hands of poker. The dealer glances over shoulder.

Graves caught in her smile. Wagering corpses. Against this trusted sequence of skin.

Her laughter loud. As if no one can hear her. Her tears quiet. Becase she knows everyone is listening.

Weak plagues gathering momentum. In moldy boxes and the things we would leave to be guarded by them. Peeling the rocks. Chewing on rubberbands. Catching up to the clock. As it notices. We are the only ones left.

Still waiting for the world to end.

The devil in her nightgown. Making progress.