Her father taught her how to carve,
Her mother how to smile.
She learned to keep her fingers clean
And hide the bones in style.
The gentlemen came courting her,
With roses, rings, and wine.
She hung their portraits in the hall,
Their hearts upon a line.
They dressed her in the finest flesh,
And stitched her hem with bone.
A hundred hearts beneath her skirts,
Yet none to call her own.
The bridegroom came at half past death,
His vows a butcher's prayer.
He kissed the hollow of her throat
And found no heartbeat there.
About the Creator
Shannon Hilson
Pro copywriter and storyteller chasing wonder and weirdness. Fiction, poetry, and occasional personal reflections live here.
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