She's in the woods where the snakes hang from trees. Birds crawl on their pregnant bellies. Fire locusts feast on a dead, baby deer. Finger on your sun-bleached skull, your flesh is rotten, but your pain is in a much deeper place. It will never heal, her curse on you is forever, faggot boy.
You feel like a drowning kitten, a basket of dying butterflies and faded blue petals, skeletal leaves where the orchid smoke emits from the dark fissures in her red clay.
Shotgun shells, your soul in a dirty Mason jar—she has a basement and black furnace full of them. Broken glass, an ornate brass urn—her favorite prison for an unclean spirit. Solitary, you will be alone forever—you will beg for an angelic whisper of relief, and you will have none. You will embrace empty blackness, hollow thoughts, and a graveyard that no one will visit.