A Bosom's Booty
By Kosative D.

“Folie à Deux – a psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another. A madness shared by two.”


Pesky, pickled, sobered bound
A lock, a key, a bosom found.
A stature, broken hearts pursue—
A madness deathly shared by two.

I tied her up—she nodded in desperate approval. Desire tightening her bosoms—her nipples fluidly dripped blood and pus. Reaping the benefits of a Vodka doused beverage, her tied up limbs screeched passion and excitement.

We’d been reclused in the house for months—ordering meals and liquids from a nearby delivery station. Our sanity dripped the walls with paint—paint of our poetry we’d written on the dry walls brigade.

We’d spoken about this moment for as long as we could fathom—our minds lost in our oblivion. She kept the secrets we’d been searching for in her chest—a chest oh so similar to that of a pirate’s booty. It’d been locked away too long now. Sudden representation of pathogens lined the crevice—time was no worry—temporal irrelevance.

It had been ages perhaps, ensued in a moment—a minute gone rancid with eternity. A rot so deep it drove us mad. Yet how mad was a bosom’s booty?

She prepared herself—breathing deep. I laughed—she mimicked its insanity—echoing its voltage with intensity—her own laughter sounding as original as my first.

She outstretched her breasts—hands tied behind her back, stuck to the chairs wooden frame. Stretch marks lined her thinned stomach—thin from our reclusion—thinned from our repulsion. Ribs poking through the vintage anatomical lining, the epidermal dress.

I slithered to her uptight pressed out presence—hair standing up on her delicate skin—just as an irked, indignant witch’s cats might when egged on.

As my tongue licked and slurped in radiant desire, I latched the rusted knife behind my back—the key to the finest of fine. Her eyes rang crisp with approval.

I flipped the knife, gripped its neck, and plunged its glory into the middle of her bosom. She squealed with joy—an orgasm of pleasant appraisal!

I turned the knife counter clockwise as blood gush—an artery tangled in its metallic glaze, its web of fine descent.

The knife was the key—as I pulled it out, I reached my hands into her skeletal opening—the bone felt weakened and raw—a milky hardness, like malice milk gone bad.

I ripped her chest plate apart and there it shown! The gold coins of glory. They shone with radiance—gold coins that rested in her bosom for millennia.

The light that reflected off the doubloons transfixed their beauty onto me—an elegance to graze my present mentality—a bosom’s booty indeed!

Her eyes lost that life-ridden glow, each muscle fading its awakened presence to the universe, molecules vacuumed through the nonsensical space that ensued.

And though she gazed at the cosmos, death lining her pores, she smiled. She knew the treasure to be worth her loss—for her gain was eternity in golden glory—treasure engulfing both our freedoms.

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My name is Kyle D'Amico, I write under the pseudonym Kosative D. In my middle school years I was struck with noetic power, the desire to create poems in everything. From this point on I just wrote and wrote and loved each second of it, though this was just a "hobby" of mine, I decided it was absolutely what I was destined for during my third year of college--I had traveled through many universities majoring in philosophy, creative writing, and film before I came to the conclusion that writing is just my thing. I love creating stories of madness and troubles and I try to be as poetic as possible in the midst; horrific strife in beautiful waves.

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