the siblings we do not speak of

our prince of the black eyes
breaks his teeth on smoke.
he bites through his dried up
lips and splits them
with a bitterness that spoils
his every taste.

“come and look, O mother…”

he makes  of them like dolls
in waxy sickness, moving
them through his gums
as though toying
with such agony were
a worthy joke.

“look, mother, how
I have made an evil
of my mouth in smiles
from a spite that may be
twisted from me like rot
through weaker flesh”

and he stands to prove
his strength while weeping
blood out by his tongue,
curling it like words to chew
the beauty from his face.

he will break them one by one
and keep a steady hand,
eventually dismantling his mouth
to the marrow.

Jennifer Wilson

 

Jennifer Wilson lives in Somerset, England, and has appeared in Mojave Heart, Barren Magazine, and Molotov Cocktail among others. A full list of her published work can be found at jenniferwilsonlit.wordpress.com, and she can be found on Twitter @_dead_swans.

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