i feel your bones grow up in my house

the storm is inside
& all the moths look like they're wearing your dress
a blood dazed punch
that follows you until you look in his eyes

a boy with wings prettier than yours
holds your heart in the killing jar
tells you that angels are just dead flies on the windowsill

finger bones break to be held
like a bird caught by a spider

watch your doll with a broken arm kingdom collapse
as the storm clouds neatly fold up windows & doors

silver spit trail winds 
scare faeries from the walls
to be caught in traps
& skinned by black heart hunters

let the storm gut you
because flies have hearts that beat the same
those dull eyed angels
make grey skies from heaven 
& pull the wings off boys that settle on the ground