A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want them, those women with purple teeth
Who have pearls around their necks, 

bare wrists
And daggers for fingers. 

When I say I want them, I mean, I want to be them,
Have gums that bleed unwaveringly with all the
Non-supplication, scathing insults, sarcasm,
Until the doorknob turns into your back
And you stand there, curiously open.

I want this cushion that has turned patchy

 yellow with tear marks and blood marks
To burst and reveal the teeth inside it, from

 the one skull I killed and buried
-not necessarily human-
And offer it to you in a little box so you know,
you know me,
Who collects relics of death, and makes relics of the living
Who would fashion a monument to resentment
And offer it up as a present, love me, it screams
I stare at it, the blood I have spent on it,
And I do not know which blood I hate more,
The whiteness of your love, or the redness of mine.

I pull my lips at the ends and stare wildly into the mirror,
And claw at my gums so they delicately bleed out what I want to say
Purple, fresh, a morning vendor's flowers for the temple.
Instead all I have to offer the gods today
is another
skull
taken apart
burnt
bit by bit
Ash, before it is purple.