Prompt: #181 from Creative Writing Prompts. What images does this line in one of Gregory Corso’s poems spark in you: “They want to make buttons of my bones”
Little girls, sitting sweetly. Their tattered laces hanging at the hem of their dresses. Faint blues, and porcelains. Ivory and creams. They have silk ribbons about the waist with moth eaten bows. Like ravenous wolves they sit. Tantalized and waiting to pounce tucked away in the back of your subconcious.
Worse than a goddess of crossroads or some unholy reaper. Their curls paled with dust and their skin sallow and grey. Their eyes are filled with wanting as they stare up at me. The lifeblood in my veins thins to a trickled and my heart stops. It’s time to play. I stand in silent horror. Wondering what will become of me now. Some, many try to run. There is no escaping them. They are demanding girls who have endless wishes for tea parties macabre, and postmortem brunches. Their rotting smiles stretch across their faces brimming with ghoulish amusement. They catch us, collect us. We are, each one of us, a serial number in their collection. It is the hopeless destiny of each mortal soul to land in the lap of these eternal insatiable two. Small decaying children, ceaselessly searching for a new game to play. We are the pawns. The teddy bears. Our blood the tea and our flesh the teacups. We are but petit fours on the table of the afterlife. They see me, and they want to make buttons of my bones.