these girls know what they've done. under their breath they utter holy hymns out of false saint lips. those catholic girls scream in delight for violence. but girls don't kill, do they?

oh, but these girls did with blood-soaked hands and malice laced in their iris. but good girls like them don't commit murder. and how could they?

their hair was curled, and soft as ichor, dainty-boned with such smooth skin feathers cried, they were doused in holy water and vanilla cashmere, and held rosaries to their breasts and swore they they feared god and his kingdom, they clasped their hand over their hearts and promised they feared god and eve's retribution, they prayed for world peace and vowed they feared god and his quartet of dark horseman.

"WE FEAR GOD!" they'd say as they bit their silver tongues while holding the soft hands of their fellow sisters and nuns with their right, and never the hearts of succulent boys to left.

but no one knows who they are at night.

they lurked at dying dawn for doe-eyed heedless prey, with silver sickle blades kissing the cold skin of their thighs, hidden underneath their gossamer gowns. they dwelled in shapeless silk mantles, donning grisly veils with the faces of beasts, clutching, waiting, anticipating for a meal to fill their guts as they spilled others guts. and boys like charlie were perfect.

boys like charlie made her heart race. boys like charlie take the sweets from their mother's lap, and suck on them teethingly to snare the bitter-sweetness in their gums. boys like charlie smelled good like honey and milk from heaven's pathways. boys like charlie made rouge ravage her dark cheeks like weathered vines of grapes. boys like charlie made her sing teardrops of gospel from the valley of her thighs when he walked by.

boys like charlie were delicate and hard-wired to love delicate things. boys like charlie were all-american cream, russet mopped, and dreamy eyed--collecting the vast stars in their pupils. and boys like charlie reigned blissfully ignorant and enjoy innocent midnight strolls when the darkness screamed for them to be under slumber's will.

and girl's like rose pushed girls like greta to heave daggers, twist and impale the hearts of young boys before ethics claws seized their minds. girls like rose told her to go, unleashed the monster that was girlhood from her spirit and devour and revel, to partake in the ritual of death. and girls like amara clipped her shoulders and nipped her skin with slithering coaxes of encouragement, and girls like amara giggled and moaned at her unease. the night was calling for the new girl to break free from her egg

but girls like rose and amara weren't girls at all. girls like rose and amara were long gone and dead. shedding their mortal flesh towards the likeness of godless snakes.

and so girls like greta lunged like vipers, digging their maws into bloody meat, spewing toxin in sluggish veins, splintering rubbery sinew with tragic grace, sculpting death into carcasses with their fangs, feeling the screams invigorate and rattle her loveless bones, gushing forth cataclysmic fountains of blood on everest silky scales, splitting entrails and oceans of bloodbaths on mourning alleyways, fishing for their pulsing prizes; a heart; the crowned jewel of the soul, it's breath shivering, stolen from the cracked pillars of alabaster ribs.

alas she held a piece of his love.

because boys like charlie was alive no more. and because of that girls like vipers---greta, had their bones weep violently like trees under the whims thunderstorms, soil hands enriched by crimson blood, and a raw throat retching for forgiveness and warm embraces because boys like charlie couldn't afford to hold her no more

as he looked up in the sky wondering what has he done to deserve this, and if death was so painful where was his finny to hold him close through the tethering pain

and those gruesome girls slithered to their hatchling. the mamba held her close, singing thoughtless hymns in her quivering ears, as the cobra leaned over boys like charlie savoring in the terror etched in his eyes, looking into the hollow-hearted and basket of soupy innards.

"tell the devil i'm his friend. more than a queen to his throne." the cobra hissed

it laid a brutal lover's mark upon his head with cold lips. it's voice rusted and sickly sweet. the cadaver jerked one last time and moved no longer-free at last

It clicked their tongue.

'burn him.'

and so they did.

death became deathless that night. and so the morning was reborn.

but those girls were so harmless they couldn't have killed anyone. honeyed lipped and scented of nightshade. no one ever looks for the snakes in girls skin. so they sung and prayed, sung and prayed for the announcement of charlie's death the next day. many girls cried over beautiful charlie but no one cried harder than greta.

it was foolish for her to do so because the guide of murder has only begun for this maiden. she has yet to bare her fangs and dance in iron scales.

she was still nothing but a hatchling.

~art~