If it feels too good to be true, it is.
Powder clouds dust the skies above. She arches her back to it, and he raises her lavender dress up her thighs to the curve of her stomach. She clutches at the weeds and grass when his tongue buries between her thighs. She buries her bare feet into the earth feeling alive, flying to the sun. After, he unbuttons her dress with his teeth and takes her to the moon.
One cannot go to the sun or the moon.
A pale white body hangs from a rope. It turns in pirouettes, round and round, in gentle slow spins. The noise the rope makes as it spins sounds like whispers. It hangs from the doorframe of her bedroom. She cries and looks at the body from her bed.
She is scared of herself.
She is covered in mud. There are graves everywhere and she is digging one. Now she is sliding a black bag in the dark hole, then filling it in.
It is raining. Hard.
If one can’t handle truth, deny it.