Visual Communications / Chateau Wanton Gallery

She whispered, “Before you become a ghost above your corpse?” Her words twisted like a knife. I saw my reflection—a broken animal begging. She kissed my ear, lips slick with her poison: scorched earth, lavender,...

She slid off me, harvested sweat and saliva like fallen-angel nectar, flicked her Frankenstein cigarette into the leaves, and sparked a tiny inferno: final punctuation on our apocalypse.