Obsidian Bones
Beauty can be found in chaos
you once whispered,
placing an obsidian arrowhead
between my mangled fingers.
You sing me stories of
girls born from fire.
Rising from soot and
destruction, their obsidian bones
A pinnacle of strength.
You say I hold the same
volcanic beauty.
Do you not know
my lava-scarred skin drapes
bones of burning poison?
Piles of ash call me their home.
There is no obsidian
born from my eruption.
Pushing the arrowhead across the table,
I smile weakly.
There is no beauty to be found here.
Horror Sleaze Trash 