She Can See Best When Blind

The glove in her stare coming off slowly. Words. Numb fingers learning to feel again. As the sun begins to punctuate life's steady stream of ghastly adjectives. Not a verb to spare. For skin exposed. Damaged. Unable to learn anymore.

Sickness packaged as cures. Always. And especially for the hopeless.

Her grin menstrual. Giving birth in empty coughs. Of things neither alive nor dead. Headless dolls left in convenient cradles. Anticipating birth in puddles of vomit. And abortions not completed.

There is only one kind of drunk. And this it is. Knowing it never mattered.

Arguing with the glass in the window. Trying to tell it that it's black, but it won't believe you.