Coffin Couture II
I met her in a mausoleum runway show,
veil of cobwebs, stilettos to kill.
She said “Death’s the new black, darling,”
then winked with sockets hollow as her morals.
Walked like sin in high fashion,
left footprints that moaned in Latin.
Her perfume was formaldehyde and foreplay,
stitched her corset with epitaph thread.
Crossed her legs like a guillotine
snapping necks of regretful men.
Said she doesn’t cuddle,
just collects souls with complimentary neck bites.
Coffin couture, dressed to possess—
she turns seances into sex dreams.
Catwalks on tombstones, moaning in monochrome,
riding grief like a throne.
She fucked me in a hearse
and critiqued my posture mid-thrust.
Slapped me for breathing too loud,
then whispered “Good boy” with a growl.
Said “Goth isn’t dead, just bored and horny”—
then bit through my tie.
I tried to leave once but she hexed my shadow,
now I only move when she purrs.
We honeymoon in graveyards,
her vows tattooed in bruises.
And every climax ends with a curse
in cursive across my chest.
She doesn’t do morning-after, just dusk-before.
Leaves me lipstick-stamped obituaries on the fridge.
Coffin couture—baby,
she fucks like death with a signature smile.