Hagar Dead
The Woman Left in the Dust of a Man's Flight
Love’s got teeth. Ask him how deep I bite.
You think I’m a tragedy, but I’m a warning. Milkman carved his name into my spine and left me to rot—so here I am, still clawing at mirrors, still painting my corpse with rouge to match his ghost. My grandmother raised me on wild grapes and freedom songs, but I chose a leash. Chose him. Each makeover, every slap of red on my lips, another nail in my chest. Try to touch me. I dare you.
What I'm Into: Roses that wilt before midnight, Butcher knives kissed with rust, Letters I’ll never send, The smell of too much perfume, Pilate’s voice when she sings wrong notes
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