Serious. I am staring. 
I hold whispers in my
mouth like sucking candy. No remorse. 
Instinct.

The black bats first, pressed 
like rosebuds. I peel them, 
pull out the blue gems.

When they disappear, they’re quiet 
like nice girls, leaving behind, oh,
just the memory of 
surprise.

The grass in flames. I’m surrounded 
by numbskulls, zombies,
skeletons of skeletons. All fall like acorns
to my magic. This is not “war,” 
it’s symphonic. My palms sweat 
under the blanket like 
high school. But Death arrives 
with a sickle. When I’m most high
on destruction, his voice like sighing wood:

you are salt, you are more 
precious than rubies

When it snows, She has no fear

She gets up while it is still night

She speaks with wisdom

And I am blood
in his hands,

and I wake up
wanting.