Resolved

Our fingers twitch.
Her throat is
So soft,
So white —
Sweet, trusting repose.

And we are faithless
Under an indifferent sky.

She reflects
Some kind of
Angelic light,
But we have had
Enough of goodness.
And we have had
Our fill of flesh.

We devour
Smoke and iron.
Metal sings against metal —
But not too sharp.
We want this to hurt.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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