Prose: “— Soft-Skin Darlings of the Tundra (2),” by Ami
petals plucked off are reutilized, revitalized by the destitute for non-demonic self-asphyxiation. For devils, rose spines are always being planted beneath tender prints of earthly inebriation. Thornmilk, meanwhile, is never as nourishing as they lead you to believe. It pulps lucid on each victim’s bottom lip — melds to dry flesh, stretching unnamed intricacies of the pout further astray. That is why mercury bears superior whims for any mortal withering, whimpering, faltering by their own infallibility. Humans know naught of ethereality, nor elixir; the divinities find themselves perpetually enamored, yet equal-parts enraged, by all the ways in which sense continues to elude us.