My acid-tongued
fantastic darling;
cherry pouting
Mädchen Polly!

If only you knew how much
your peach flush excited me;

this deepening burgundy of shame
that extends its painter’s brush into
the soft folds of your baby skin,

a trickling of blood
from a dead hare
seeping into freshly ploughed snow, that
stains such dainty snowflakes this

innocent pink

as greedy fingers enclose
around a lock
of your trembling hair,

like how dead trees
shiver temporally
when warmed by brittle winter suns

while ravens come out
for the seething bloodlust;
cawing with murderous delight –

“Darling, darling, won’t you
sit round ‘ere this rosacea posy,
and play with me?

© Zelda Reville


4 thoughts on “Lolita

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