La Petite Mort Hannah Orlando
Bare breasts and hearts align on ships, unmanned. A hunger yearning for the tastes within bodies, encased amongst elation kin to death, remaining blinded by a brand. While blood pools far away from its homeland, blank canvas tears from eager nails on skin, where the line of need and desire draws thin. The outside world fades with each drop of sand, but carnal needs breed only malcontent, amid neglected echoes of past lives. Marred soul singed by red iron burns like oil, under perceived vice laid out to dement. Against words and brimstone, my strength survives, borne by each small death plated in gold foil.
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