You are an angel in the snow, you pale cheeked wonder, with dark eyes so bright. Go to sleep now, don’t stay out in the blue black cold, under the new moon, in the night air that will soon glow pink and glassy with the sun.

I thought if I could swallow the stars
I’d be as beautiful as the evening sky
I tried one night    with fireflies
They burned my throat
Their legs striking at soft flesh
But my skin did not glow
No moon crawled from my eye sockets
I was left with corpses in my stomach
I soon learned I would only ever be
A cemetery

It’s warm, like that muggy heaviness that hangs in the chlorinated air above pools; artificial and stifling but comforting nonetheless.
You get too close, and the neon will burn your eyes. A remnant of something long gone, but it lives on. Its warmth would **** you, you know. Don’t get too close.

And so I painted a little red house for us to live in, darling, with a brown roof and four sturdy walls and we could live there, live there in that little red house and pick thistleberries and have stained glass windows and teabag dresses and little leather boots