"These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder. Which, as they kiss, consume."— Romeo & Juliet, Act II, Scene VI
Before the moon shone, your lies kept going. I wondered how my cries stopped going. A pebble of mint, tell me your disease, call out your name, the sugared rye going. Take Rodin for example, his mind was woeful, inhaling the plaster of Paris, eyes not going. A glass of absinthe, midnight spies break teeth, leave the girl they say, she tries before going. Blissed out on jimson weed, a bubblegum dream, sexing the night with burger n’ fries we got going.
Courtenay Schembri Gray is a writer from the North of England. She is 1/4 Maltese, and happened to find herself hit by a car when she was eleven. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Rejection Letters, Hobart, Bath Flash Fiction, and many more. She will often post on her blog: www.courtenayscorner.com
Twitter: @courtenaywrites
Instagram: @courtenaywrites
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