The Most Beautiful Corpse In The Morgue

She’s the kind of girl

who can make even death look beautiful.

Slip dress slipped off, string of pearls she strung along,

cherry red lips

that used to sing prayers like promises

she never kept.

They say she was too much for this world,

that her bones were laced with something angelic,

that she left a trail of men

who swore they saw God

between her thighs.

She wasn’t built for staying.

She never liked mornings or monogamy.

She was made for late-nights,

for red roses wilting on gravestones,

for stories that end

one chapter too soon.

Now they drink to her memory,

call her a tragedy,

a saint,

a ghost with perfect eyeliner

who never planned on staying

but never said goodbye.