Petite Morte

I lay under the black heart. It doesn't beat anymore because you don't love me anymore. That dead black heart wasn't bourgeois, and I didn't know if I could breathe under it, but I could. You came and took the heart, and squeezed some blackness out of it, and it rained down like stinging acid over my bare skin. It went into my mouth and I swallowed it so I could breathe, and it painted my lungs in the acid. I exhaled smoke.

You stuck your hands through my skin and through my ribs, and tore my lungs out of my body. You gave them to the dead black heart with a loving kiss that barely coated your lips with the rotting organ tissue. You put your clawed hands back into the hole where my lungs once were, and pulled out my ribcage, piece by piece. It wasn't any use to stop you, because you had already taken the thorns from the faux roses and shoved them through my fingers and feet, and I couldn't move. When you pulled out my ribs and exposed them to your exhaling mouth, they turned black too, so you added them to the dead pieces that used to be a mutual love for eachother.

You pulled out my beating pink heart, and the beating sped up in your hands because it loved you, so you crushed it with your hand and ate it while you prodded at my stomach and my kidneys with your free hand. You ripped them out, too, and put them to your lips. The rotting tissue from the heart and the lungs passed to them and turned black. You added them to your collection of my blackened organs. I told you I wanted to help you kill me, so I tore my fingers and feet off the thorns, and collected the fingernails that had ripped off. They began to rot so much faster than normal, so they turned black, and I added them to the thing you were making.


I tore out my eyes and lips and they turned dark like everything else, so I put them with the creation. You put your fingernails through the skin on my forearm, and grabbed the bones. You pulled them out, with no hindrance to the veins that snapped like rubberbands, or the blood that poured out. I cried through empty sockets, and your fake kisses turned my tears into acid to burn my face and my tear ducts. You tore out the rest of my bones (except my skull) in the same manner as my forearm, and tore out my throat when I screamed in pain. You pulled out my hair, one folicle at a time, as I vomitted blood out of my lipless mouth.

There was nothing left to me except so much blood and muscle and human meat. You put all of what was left of me onto a black silk sheet and put me in the corner. All you needed for your work of obsequious creation was skin and a skull. You went to the most beautiful woman in the world and took her skin and her skull, and she gladly obliged to be with you. You put her skin and skull with what you already had, and you made a new type of woman. But she did not come from my organs and skeletal system alone, because I alone had never been good enough for you. You were all I ever needed, and I was all you didn't want.

I watched you hold hands with the woman with the black organs, and I watched you both walk over to the black silk sheet and I, and feast upon what all was left of me. You and the woman kissed your bloody kisses.You named her Petite Morte. That was the price for loving you.

-J.M.