inside her head the scarecrow laughs. breaking its ugly straw lips. inside her head the crow frowns. fracturing its rigid beak.

but scarecrows can't laugh. and crows don't frown. she only assumes they must. when she looks at them with eyes that do.

the math sobs. soiling its perfection. the numbers spoil in their own resilience. always returning to be solved again. skin is a variable. touch is a constant. the proof is the bruises present in every equation.

the scarecrow listens. its straw ears cracking against the strain. the crow whispers. its sturdy jaw broken by the weight.

but scarecrows are always deaf. and crows rarely speak.

but the math betrays her. And she thinks she hears them.

savage is the queen whose crown has been soiled. her flowing gown thirsty with the things she hides under it. little scavengers. on the tips of her nails. as she bites down. the militant agenda of heroes. futile at best.

quiet is the princess. as she slips into the parade. a wilting orchid lost amongst an array of ostentatious roses. the mirror she suspects. is more than logic enough. to determine. what to keep.

rotting pumpkins on the porch waiting to be kicked. monsters wearing human masks. the fortunate disguises of lovers.

the storm at her fingertips hisses and moans. furious with all the rest of her body. an empty cauldron. waiting on its witch. all the ingredients gathered. but the magic still missing.

she ties the doll's arms in knots. the tighter the better. because so many things forget to stay with us. she assumes certain maps must be regenerative. since where we must go will always find us.

epiphanies. fingernails gnawing through the skin. to witness the warts on the outside. witches. licorice hair and chocolate vaginae. succumb to the thrust of the oven.

wearing her jaundice in quiet sobs. tiny twigs in the spokes of mammoth tires. propel her forward even as her method stalls. choice. the last refuge of fools and poets. a distant utopia populated by of clowns and acrobats.

where each spectacular feat is diminished by their willingness to fall.

following the map written in her skin. veins like stitches. tangled in knots. bones like buttons. pretend to fit. into the holes left. after the circus is over. all those cages crowded again. only the smell of shit remaining.

patience vexes against the stark. cities of faces. tilting skyscrapers. drought in their grins. copious confessions to fortify their desperation.

the politic of choice is in its existence. the paradox of skin is that we pretend to still wear it. so long after we are naked. bones are glass. muscle is porcelain. travellers without itinerary. hunters lacking prey.

the calm transition. from scream to whisper. iciciles melting. the pull of gravity. making everything sharper.

the needle between her legs. sewing memories from blood and semen. the knotted thread between her legs. peculiar with too many choices. forward. back. all the same. soiled dresses faintly visible in the shadows on her grave.

Flesh is the contingency upon which depend all of our desires. Love is the profanity that they are spoiled by.

the years are benign. puzzles solved long ago, broken again into those same pieces. blackboards to erase. And scatter their contents to the wind. we never remember anyway. all those things we learn when we weren't listening.

just stitches in the soil. the clench of old footprints as we forget how to walk. damp fists. pounding flat what already is.

time is data. evidence. stored in this jury of skin. drowned kittens conformed to the shape of the fist. touch is the mortgage this life is borrowed against. desire its treason.

the rat nudges the trap. testing the sensitivity of death. the friction whispers kinetic. ripe with waning drugs. curious with fatal prizes.

the silence stabs with its blunt instruments. eyes like atoms. fierce explosions too small to judge. the frail of her decisions painfully transparent. tiny ants with big stones on their backs. travelling home on pencil legs.

the stretch iodine as the infection persists unabated. bleating lambs peer into the mouth of the lion. Wondering which fang is nearest.

the covet of conjecture. as it fills her empty dress with legs. distance finds itself in her. the density of touch. the frozen stutter of clumsy flesh. as it reaches into empty cages.

the years like broken cartilage. lose their shape. sour their buckets with so much piss.

the box observes its would be contents. from a distant future. where the holes have grown large. and there is nothing left. Of the heavy buckets we used to carry. That always contained nothing. we just never knew.

the catapult was launching pebbles. but they felt so heavy. we didn't know. how dull the blade was. each time we stabbed at the dominoes.

we thought that they would all fall. eventually. we assumed it to be inevitable.

that we would be defeated by change. consumed with pieces. blinded by the whole.

it seemed so obvious. that those buckets would drain. that I would arrive with nothing.

monsters on her doorstep. too small to see. fools and gravity wait for the fall. but empty has its own means of measuring.

The night comes in sobs. A deluge of trials ripe with evidence. she dissects the hours. until each breath is only a molecule. Determined to prove everything is as small.

The sky moans. Dense with futile storms. The sky bleeds rain. From a deep wound.

Children dancing on the graves of jackals.

Her dreams bustle with the dusty chalkboards and lazy ghosts. Arrogant guns presume bullets are enough.

the theater rises from the tenement of her choices. a curtain across an ambivalent stage. a play too sure of itself.

her audience an autopsy.

the waiting evolves. larger than itself. thick rimmed glasses on the face of the storm. squint at the people on top of the mountains. the boulder defines. the repetition confirms. a jaundiced legacy of want.

soft pastel pencils flood the page with color. lacking definition. the wound bleeds its borders. imagining the choices. that rarely come.

flesh petitions. in blundering fervency. loose bandages. scabs to be picked. the skin below anxious for infection.

her smile is a zipper. gnawing teeth. closing on the dangling epiphanies.

the wait becomes her. as she presses her nose to the glass. looking in on dominoes. as they fall.

uncertainly her only asset.

collisions. mountains stomp. like angry children. we play. sorry picnics. as though they were victories. the hours drone on. furtive with presumptions about. peeling scabs. dried blood. and that blade that would claim them.

she scraches. her diary into the shadows. invsible ink. and dwindling marrow. soft bones bend. where others might break.

charming the witch. as children are wont to do. fires under her dress. finding their oxygen. as the oven crackles with a new victim.

she dawdles on the blood. the one indication of permanence. the hours loudly argue their choices. but the dolls are deaf.

the colors arrive. planets anxious to assume their orbit. around pale suns. the needle draws its art. in scars along her veins. subtle detours. attempt to avoid the monsters. though they are the destination.

uncertainty is measure enough. as she looks back to determine where it began.

an empty box her only possession. everything inside of it. choice merely a consequence of why.

footsteps come and go. the lick of the wind their only witness. wormholes open and close. which side we're on irrelevant. we're always too far away. anchors adrift in the ocean. always too close. rowboats swallowed by the waves.

the chemicals are reactive. the lye on her tongue attests. the science is plain. uncertainty becomes us.

patiently she waits. on missing dominoes. for the colors to change.

casual conditions divide. word from warmth. touch from skin. time is a parable. and we are the lessons. frail morals consigned to a dark corner of when. the confessions of shadows were more observation than truth.

touch is a parody. a satire of how much it hurts to want.

the panicked sobs of children. their mothers out of sight. gone.

the numbers rotate. their cycle dense with pause. long tape measures bite back hard on that hand that tried to prove how far. the witches with their cauldrons. decimals punctuate their spells. not enough. the angels with their wings. fractions of heaven play like a puzzle. i'll no doubt put together once i've found all the pieces.

like the ax to the wolf's belly. as blunt as it is effective.

the breadcrumbs of orphans are not meant to be followed.

bandages pull on wounds. the curtain to the broken window. healing comes in fists and jabs. the maggots thrive on the dead. the monsters to the closet. and the nightmares that follow.

time pursues. its orphans. the tears of the wind fall quietly. a marathon of faces. as brittle as the hours are dense. the fraction. the moment. dripping paint. wet with hysterics.

carrots and hounds. both chasing the string.

there is no color to how. it's grey. there is no motion to when. it's stagnant.

numbers boast their questions. no one can answer. flesh bargains its openings for a better return.

time wagers on each cut. How deep it goes.

i was not there. not then. not now. or ever. i could watch. i would stare. captivated by the conundrum of truth. was it a scrape on a mirror. a scratch on a second face no one would ever wear. or something more permanent. a cut the same as an ocean. flowing under the skin. drowning all those mountains in its path.

i would not ever ask. choices. terminal affliction of the dying or dead. that we could. that we would dare be so arrogant. as to think, that what we desire. has any weight. when measured on such an infinite scale.

the dark provokes. the snarl of freedom. resonates. heavy boulders falling. breaking. an eruption of questions. as violent as it is timid. what is a life. Other than its addictions. a harmless question.

what is time. beyond our perception. a dagger. A drug. a heavy cloak. naked emperors pretend to wear.

A ladder. A stair. A foggy glass looking in on. Never touching. Empty utopias.

the years pronounce our names in garbled stutters. the pitch. fractions possess the whole. the point of the needle. as it delivers its hollow praise.

arriving in stabs. the blunt thrust of time. i failed to spend. worthless now.

he says it happened then. but you won't remember. he says it was once, but no longer can. frayed baskets dense with choices. i made before i knew that i had them.

the container leaks. numbed by the auctions. the providence of flesh. builds its kingdom from the remnants of heaven.

there are threads. stitches she dutifully sews. seams in the mountain as it erupts. pauses in the numbers. that admit. they don't know. there are oceans. waves that break too close. the wilt of colors. as they scribble their bridges.

There are distances. we can't measure. numbers louder than we can count.

the atom folds. slender creases in the fabric of life. anger serves its counterpoint. stagnant ladders. busy feet. but nowhere is closer. there more distant.

tomorrow chokes into existence. in coughs and wheezes. the sick fetus of yesterday wailing for a new tit.

all time is ours. to scrape and to steal. from the laboring villains under our skin. each hour a cacophony of bones. muted by their nakedness.

the molecules bend. soft paperclips working the pages. as backward struggles to learn. what the future has always known.

Paper bags. Her quarry of how. Damp with choices. time tends to exceed.

Nothing to lose. Except strangers.